


The Lay of First-Thaw

by citizenblue



Series: In Death, Solace [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7097833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citizenblue/pseuds/citizenblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Exalted Council, the Inquisitor returns to the Frostback Basin in a bid to prepare for her fight against her new-found enemy. The Inquisitor is already a legend, and though this tale will remain unknown to most, in time it will only work to cement her place in myth. To those that truly knew her, however, it is nothing more than the simple unfolding of events:</p><p>For better or for worse, Adaar will come to learn what it truly means to be tied to another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Sacrifice of Gore

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE 06/21/16:  
> Hey guys! So I know I'm late with the latest update. It's mostly written, but it's definitely taking more time than I anticipated. I'm in the middle of a big move, so updates may be a little irregular until mid-July.
> 
> That being said, I have a f!Trevelyan/Cassandra story (titled There Is No Darkness) that I've had on the back burner. I have a couple of chapters in "storage," so I'll be putting those up for now. 
> 
> Sorry for the delay!
> 
> \--
> 
> Post-Trespasser DLC, so spoilers for everything.
> 
> Unlike Dreamers in the Fade, I'll be posting this as a serial. I'll update weekly, so while I might post multiple chapters in a week, you can always expect one on Monday.
> 
> My hope here (as with DiF) is that I'll be able to deliver something you haven't quite read before. With luck, this piece will fulfill expectations.

The songs will whisper still:  
A sigh yet tied to throats,  
Scalded throats thawed by hands,  
That bloodied Lowland hand.  
But listen – these new words  
Will shiver live but once:  
She makes her masked return.  
A sacrifice of gore.

 

The Warden and the Bard flashed with the glint of well-worn iron. They remained silent as they stepped through the ruined temple, and their eyes searched for the mythical relic, the Urn of Sacred Ashes. The Guardian stood before them. He pulled Regret from their hearts. A test of faith.

The Ashes had been fine between the Warden's fingers.

Few broached the confines of the chamber again, and when the Chantry returned to claim the ruins, they found impenetrable walls in its wake. The Guardian, the Urn, and the chamber were no more. And yet, perhaps this was for the best; only in absence does faith prevail, and the Chantry adopted the Temple of Sacred Ashes as its pulsing soul.

It yet remained the soul until the day the clouds began to swirl in a tempest, old magic tearing through the zenith of the sky, tearing through the mages, tearing through the Templars, tearing through the Divine herself. A skin of red lyrium hardened over the temple's surface, and the soul became a symbol of what the old magister had wrought.

Divine Victoria ghosted a finger over the surface of the wall, her fingers searching for the miniscule dimple only known to one other. No; now only known to her.

The party entered the ancient, lonely chamber. The Inquisitor, before the Exalted Council, had declared the Inquisition disbanded.

But to all those present, such a declaration was a far cry from the truth:

The Inquisition yet lived, and the Temple of Sacred Ashes had become its soul.

The Inquisitor plunged a dagger into the map, splitting the old paper through Tevinter's land, the deep _thunk_ of iron against wood pulling a smile of nostalgia from the Lord Seeker's lips. Fen'Harel knew too much. Fine; they would probe, then, into the unknown. Tevinter. The Deep Roads. Titans. The Architect.

The Frostback Basin and the Avvar and the strength of their primal magic:

Cassandra Pentaghast opened her eyes, relishing in the discomfort of frozen dirt beneath her bedroll. She stretched out. She had missed this: the dark air of early morning piercing through her lungs.

She had insisted, at first, in overseeing the training of every new Seeker, in partaking in the developing camaraderie between men and women, a camaraderie that could only be coaxed out of shared misery. She had insisted, of course, until an officer had pulled her aside, frustration clearly written across his face as he explained that she _could simply no longer micromanage lest he go completely mad_. Cassandra had sputtered in embarrassment as she remembered the way she herself had chafed against her own superior's hovering shadows.

She twisted the stiffness out of her back and smiled.

She strapped the armor around her test, pulling the leathers taut. The most recent class of recruits had only just begun their vigil. Only a few officers would be needed to oversee the safety of the trial, and so Cassandra had been granted a brief reprieve. Adaar had been the one to convince her to continue the vigils at all.

“Don't throw away a perfectly good tool on my account,” Adaar had said. “The Seekers' abilities will be crucial in this fight, and if the recruits are aware of the details, I don't see a problem.”

Still, Cassandra, in an attempt to assuage her own discomfort, had shortened the vigil to span that of a single season. A full year had proven to be entirely unnecessary, after all.

She powdered her feet dry before pulling on her boots. Regardless, she would relish this time with the Inquisitor.

She tightened the laces, drinking in the animated voices flowing in through the leather walls of the tent.

“Could we strap my feet to your shoulders?”

“Not much stability.”

“You're right… What if I _sit_ on your shoulders instead?”

“You'd lose mobility.” Adaar paused, thumbing through the thoughts in her head. “Can you sit cross-legged?”

“So… If we built a seat and strapped it to your back…”

“Exactly.”

“That's genius! And we could have it spin… That way I'd be able to watch your back, too!”

“They won't see it coming.”

“We'd be unstoppable,” Harding agreed. “I'll have the schematics sent to Dagna.”

“What's next?”

“Well, there was that one idea you had.”

“Good, I've been thinking about this. I had these daggers made. They double as climbing axes.”

“…We should test them out.”

“You just read my mind.”

A sense of dread settled in Cassandra's gut, and she burst out through the tent, nearly stumbling in her frantic attempt to make it outside.

“ _Maker, what are you doing_? _”_ Cassandra watched, her mouth agape, as Adaar chucked Harding high and far into the air towards the cliff face. “You cannot throw the spymaster!”

“It's… a test drive,” Adaar said, shrugging.

Meanwhile, Harding dangled above them, daggers anchored to the rock; “If this were an ogre, it would _so_ be dead!”

“ _Explain_.”

“Well,” Adaar started. “We decided we should… expand the Valo-Kas. Send over a few of our Dwarven scouts.”

“And now you are throwing Harding at cliffs.”

“We _also_ wanted to innovate a little.” Adaar almost looked sheepish. “The last time we were here, Harding thought it would be a good idea to have Dwarven archers standing on Avvar shoulders.”

Harding planted here feet back on the ground, breathless after scaling back down the cliff face. “But then we thought, Qunari are so much bigger than Avvar. _And then_ we thought, what if the Valo-Kas could _throw_ the Dwarven rogues, too?” She gestured towards the cliff. “Ta-da!”

“I honestly do not know what to say.”

“Baldy doesn't stand a chance,” Sera said, appearing beside Harding. “He'd never think of something like this.”

“No, I… I suppose he would not.”

Adaar pulled Cassandra away to sit beside the ashes of the long-squelched fire. Cassandra stilled her hands as she watched Adaar. She had long since learned to allow Adaar to go through this ridiculous charade of performing these tasks on her own. Adaar balanced the food on her knee, unwrapping the lichen bread and strips of dried druffalo before spooning two servings of beans into canteen cups. Sera sniffed from afar, pinching her face together while the pair chew on chilled mush. Even during their travels with the old Inquisition, both had seemed to actually prefer eating their rations cold.

_It's brisk_ , Adaar would say, as though that made it better.

Cassandra ripped into the jerky as she nudged the Inquisitor.

“You like it here, don't you?”

“It's a shame Solas is trying to destroy it all,” Adaar said, and her breath ghosted with frost. She stretched her legs into the Frostback's near-alien foliage. “Nice for a vacation, though.”

“This is not a vacation.”

“Relax, Lord Seeker.” The Inquisitor leaned over, silencing Cassandra with a long kiss. “Enjoy yourself. We're back on the road. What's not to like?”

“Ugh. You derive far too much pleasure from these gaudy titles.”

“I don't know. I can think of a few games that would be fun for you, too, _Lord Seeker_. Perhaps a certain _recruit_ has caught your eye.”

“You are incorrigible,” Cassandra said as she playfully shoved Adaar away. “Tonight. Maybe. If you can refrain from throwing Harding.”

“Is that an order?”

Cassandra scraped the bottom of the canteen cup with her spoon, rolling her eyes.

Together they packed their supplies, and within the hour, daylight beginning to peek over the ridgeline, they marched.Sera grumbled beside Harding, taking point at the forefront of the little expedition. Cole, meanwhile, shuffled his feet, trailing a pace behind. It had been a long week, and they had strayed a full two day's journey from the nearest remaining Inquisition outpost. Sera grumbled again, pretending as though she hadn't requested accompanying the Inquisitor to the Frostbacks. Not that the other assignments had been altogether appealing.

The Iron Bull and the Chargers had already begun to patrol the border near Tevinter, the oversized Tal-Vashoth keeping his singular eye on the newly minted Magister Pavos. Minrathous? _No, thank you, please_.

Rainier had joined the Orlesian Wardens in their mutiny against Weisshaupt, taking up Divine Victoria's banner in the name of her fallen beloved. Together they joined Ferelden's remaining Wardens in the Deep Roads, resuming their search for both Branka and the Architect. Deep Roads? _Minrathous would be far more appealing._

Vivienne, of course, had happily taken on her duties of keeping the Circles and mages in check… Sera most certainly _would not_ spend any extended amount of time alone with that mage.

There was Varric, of course, the reluctant Viscount of Kirkwall. _Kirkwall_. With all its red lyrium and apostate mages. _Nope, nope, and nope_.

No, she thought, she should have stayed at the temple. With Cullen and Widdles. She would have, of course, if Widdles hadn't fallen into another one of her new project benders. Widdles would have been consumed with her work, and Sera would have been left completely and utterly _bored_ with only _Cullen_ to prank.

Pranking Lord Seeker Cassandra was _always_ so much more fun. Sera smiled at the thought, ignoring for the moment, the horrifying bug that had brushed by his calf.

Adaar, taking the rear, tested the straps that held the crossbow to her arm. The memory of Solas standing over her remained fresh in her mind:

“ _Even you cannot change the truth. You have fooled those around you into believing there is music where there is none. You have fooled them into believing you are something that you are not, and in the process you might have even fooled yourself. It is remarkable, yes, but do not delude yourself. One day she will learn, and you will all know that my actions are only for the best_.”

She cast a sideways glance towards Cassandra. In the months past, Adaar had kept up appearances, unwilling to admit that Solas's remarks had actually _bothered_ her. She would not give up Cassandra. Never. Cassandra was unique. A glittering dragon. She _would not_ lose her.

And yet…

_He grabbed her arm, pulsing his own magic through her, petrifying the bone and muscle and skin of her arm._

“ _Live well, while time remains,” he said, and he turned away. “She_ will _learn, Inquisitor, that you are a fool.”_

_She_ will _learn._

No. She would not lose her.

Her gaze remained steadfastly ahead as her hand brushed against Cassandra's fingers, a private gesture known only between the two. Her blood boiled as a small quirk touched the corner of the Seeker's lips, the biting rush of adrenaline still as fresh as the day they had met.

Neither noticed the shadow in the trees, crouching behind branches and leaves, watching the expedition from afar.

Not when the hut before them continued to flash with the burn of magic.

The abominations shrieked as they continued their assault on the flimsy structure. Adaar loaded a bolt into the crossbow, and the projectile released with a reverberating _snap_ , piercing an abomination's eye clean through. She smashed a nearby beast with the bow, too, cracking through the corrupted skull, and she pulled her sword from her waist.

“We need to get to the Augur.”

“I'll be staying with the Seeker, thank you,” said Sera, tempted, for a moment, to jump behind the shield. “No offense, but she can make them _burn_.”

Adaar shrugged as Cole fell into step beside her.

Even with a single arm, the Inquisitor had little trouble cleaving through the demonic horde. A claw. Slicing through her skin. Blood dripping down her armor. The scent, the _burn_. The demons did nothing but spur her on.

Her blade remained constant. Like iron rain.

Beside her Cole appeared and disappeared, loading the crossbow with the collected calm only he could provide.

There were too many. An almost impossible number of demons. An abomination shrieked in her face, so close she could nearly smell its wet and spittled breath. It _crackled_ with _pride._ A bolt through its eye. The blade through its gut.

It fell. Not a single spark from its mottled skin.

Her blade dripped with abomination blood as she shoved her foot through the door. The Augur pulsed with magic, and the demon before him burst into flames.

Adaar wasted no time in cleaving through the rest.

“The Hakkonites. They have turned to the blood, and now their vessels corrupt the gods. It is shameful.” The Augur wiped blood from his staff. “I apologize, Inquisitor First-Thaw. I should have been more vigilant. I did not see the Hakkonites until they were already upon me. Regardless, I am honored to have fought by your side.”

“Have they caused much trouble?”

“As you can see, they are on their last legs,” the Augur said. “They would not have otherwise relied upon blood.”

Adaar sheathed her blade. “Well, thank you for coming here.”

“Thane Sun-Hair sends her regards, Inquisitor, and you will have our oath in battle. But the other clans do not yet wish to take part, and they remain unsure of their stake. I can only say that the thanes have decided upon a summit. They will discuss your proposal.”

“Very well. I'm sorry you had to come all this way just to deliver this message.”

“We understand the need for discretion. The gods, too, understand your concern.”

Adaar cocked her head to the side. “They don't want the Veil torn down?”

“Some do, yes. But your friend here understands,” the Augurs aid, acknowledging Cole. “Many fear corruption. For them, our realm would only serve to alter the gods into what they do not wish to be: slobbering monsters. I am here not only at the Thane's behest, Inquisitor, but of the gods as well.”

The Augur moved to leave, presumably to return to Stone-Bear Hold. Adaar stilled him with her hand.

“There's something else,” she said. “I have need of your services.”

“You would like to commune with the gods. Yes, I am aware; they have already spoken to me of your wishes. I can arrange this. You Lowlanders call her the Spirit of Faith. She will meet with you.”

With a nod, the trio descended back towards the expedition.

Adaar turned towards Cole. “You can't tell Cassandra.”

“I do not think she would want you to do this.”

_You have fooled her, Inquisitor. She believes you to be yet another character in her tales. Flawed yet redeemable. Romantic. You have fooled her._

“But you won't tell her,” Adaar said.

Cole stared at the dirt, and with a slow deliberate twitch of his muscles, he nodded. “You are my friend,” he said quietly. “I will not break your trust.”

The elf stepped forth from the shadows, nimbly swinging from branch to branch. She watched as the Lord Seeker continued to glance up at the hut in fleeting worry.

She clenched her eyes, and she allowed her hands and limbs to move on instinct alone. Rough bark. Damp moss. Dirt wedged beneath her fingernails. She clenched her eyes as though that simple movement could chase the memories away:

  _He held her close. Quiet and stoic. She wondered, for a moment, if he would even want her in that way, if that fire could and would burn within him. But he held her close, and she shivered, his whispers cool against her ear._

“ _You are wrong,” he said. “I am infatuated with you. Completely. Every fiber of my being yearns for you, and it has become frighteningly apparent to me that I have forgotten how much I have missed this.”_

“ _And what have you missed?”_

“ _The heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex.”_

_She shivered again and they held each other close and the near steady rhythm of Crestwood's rain pounded against the rocks beyond the cavern._

 Her toes grasped the bark, curling into the grooves. Her muscles trembled and shook, and her fingers strained as they struggled to keep her above the ground. Her sword slipped ever so slightly, heavy on her back.

  _A flash of green. The skies opening above. Demons all around._

_Hot. Burning. Everything burning. Why is everything burning?_

_The Divine. Calling for help. She can hear each desperate plea._

_Can't get to her. Still burning. Skin flaring and pulling apart._

_Darkness swirling down. Nothing but the dark. Only the dark._

_..._

_No light? They always said there would be a light…_

She clenched her eyes, and she allowed her hands and limbs to move on instinct alone. Down below her, Lord Seeker Pentaghast sighed in relief, her hand steady as she found the Inquisitor's arm. They sheathed their weapons as they conferred, the Frostbacks brimming alive around them.

 

Corrupted gods burned red  
And reeked of absurd force.  
Still yet she yearned for blood,  
Unyielding in her zeal.  
She only needs one hand  
To open demon skin;  
She slayed through battle-storm;  
She snared their bloody flesh.


	2. So Began the Labors

The tip of Sera's arrow pricked at her cheek, digging into the vallaslin. The elf remained steady, her eyes following the Lord Seeker as she circled around and around. From behind, she held a sword to her throat:

“Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now.” The edge of the blade pressed against her jugular. “You have been following us.”

It had been a long time since she had spoken, but the trademark Dalish lilt was smooth as it emerged from her throat. “You think I'm with _him_.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“You're lying,” Cassandra said, and she very nearly drew blood.

“I am Master Lavellan,” the elf said, lifting her chin. “Divine Victoria sent me.”

Harding searched through Lavellan's pouch, retrieving a sealed letter. “She's telling the truth,” said the spymaster, upon further examination.

“That is not enough.” Cassandra's blade remained steady against her throat. Sera remained steady, too. “I recognize your name, even now. You were counted amongst the Conclave's dead. Explain.”

Lavellan flashed the Seeker a loaded smile. “I can't.”

“What do you mean, you can't?”

“It's not a simple situation, and as charming as I find our current predicament, I doubt we'll get very far with a blade to my throat.”

Cassandra glanced towards Adaar who had remained, through the entire exchange, entirely calm and silent. Adaar stepped forward, and she stilled Cassandra's sword arm.

“Cole?” the Inquisitor said.

_Divine Victoria stands over her, the expression across her face unreadable and the guards ready to strike on her command. Lavellan, of course, lays down her weapon; she has no desire to draw the Divine's blood. But in her surrender, she does not see the hilt as it strikes the back of her skull._

_She does not know how much time has passed; she only knows that she wakes, slowly, in what must be the White Spire. She does not believe in the Maker, but now… She no longer knows what to believe regardless. Two years has passed since the very foundation of her faith had been torn out from under her._

_Most Holy visits her, and at first the woman is silent, appraising her every move. The way she sits. The way she eats. The way she pours water into her throat, streams of liquid spilling in her haste._

_The first time she speaks, Most Holy's words are quiet: “For a moment, I thought you might be her.”_

_It is a while before she visits again, but when she does, Lavellan finds it easy to tell her the unlikely tale. Of ancient elves and the Veil and false gods. She is startled to find that Divine Victoria is anything_ but _surprised. Regardless, Lavellan knows that this is Orlais, and she herself is no stranger to the Game._

_She schools her features and presses on._

_She wears the mask as though it is a second skin… She charms those around her with ease, flirtatious at times and unassuming in tone. Her voice is tinged with sincerity. Her wry smile is charismatic as it is strong._

“ _You are not like her,” Most Holy says, and she nearly sounds regretful. And ashamed._

_Still, vital threads of her tale ring true, and in little time, Lavellan becomes a trusted well of information. She has proven her worth._

“She is not lying,” Cole said. “Leliana sent her.”

He did not say much more, though. In the years past, he had learned, at least, to refrain from unnecessarily voicing private thoughts to others. The hurt and the passion strums loud in Lavellan's heart. The sour yellow note of that beating song pressed against his ears, and he became lost in the noise. A familiar song.

A song he has heard before.

Cassandra furrowed her brow, and though she had lowered her blade, she had not yet sheathed the weapon.

“Leliana probably sent her here because we have Cole,” Adaar said, answering Cassandra's unspoken question. She glanced up at the sky as she measured the time,scratching her horn and picking at a particularly frustrating nerve. “So what's the verdict? Can we trust her?”

“ _I know a spell,” he says. “I can remove the vallaslin.”_

“ _I don't wear the vallaslin for the ancient elves. I wear it for me.”_

“ _I know,” he says, but she can see that he does not. Not truly. “I am sorry. It was selfish of me. I look at you, and I see what you truly are...”_

“ _The vallaslin is part of who I am,” Lavellan says, reassuring him. She knows, though, that his eyes have already become distant. “I hope you can see past--”_

_Solas stops her words short with his lips, and for a moment, she can no longer see his eyes, and she can lose herself in his embrace. When he pulls back, his irises shimmer._

“ _I am sorry. I have distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again.”_

_Lavellan frowns.“Solas?”_

“ _Please, vhenan.”_

_It is sudden and abrupt and it punches through Lavellan._

“ _What? Don't leave me. Not now.” She reaches out with her words, a desperate attempt that feels altogether foreign on her lips; “I love you.”_

_He steps back. Shakes his head. As though he is not only trying to deny her but also himself. “You have a rare and marvelous spirit. In another world--”_

“ _\--Why not this one?”_

“ _I can't,” he says. “Harden your heart to a cutting edge, and put that to good use against the hardships you will most certainly come to face.”_

“ _Is that really all you have to say to me? After all this time?_ You _pursued_ me. You _started this.”_

“ _I'm sorry. I should have ended this long before; I never wanted to hurt you.”_

_She wants to break him. “Banal'abelas, banal'vhenan.”_

_And so he walks away in resignation, leaving her alone in the grove as though she, like everything else in this world, does not truly exist. She is not yet aware of the web of truth and lies cloaked around his shoulders. She does not yet know that she loves Fen'Harel._

Cole spoke with certainty. “We can trust her for now,” he said, but as he passed Lavellan by, he whispered words only she could hear: “ _Lathbora viran._ That is what he wanted to say. I could never decipher what he meant by it.”

Reluctantly, Sera and Cassandra sheathed their weapons, both weary with the memory of what Solas had done. Weary with the implications of the recent mass exodus of elves. Sera pouted besided Harding as she plotted their route.

“I still do not trust you,” Cassandra said to Lavellan, short and abrupt.

The elf sighed as she hung back with the rear of the party. At least Seeker Pentaghast was clear in her intent. She was everything Solas had never been. Not altogether unlike Warden-Commander Mahariel…

Honest.

Lavellan smirked as she cleared her throat. “Oh, fair damsel of the garden, Arlessa of honeysuckle and rose, I humbly beg your gracious pardon For the offense that here arose. _Surely_ your work is far too vital To be interrupted by one like me.”

Adaar glanced back, narrowing her eyes as she watched Lavellan, only now able to half-listen to Harding's latest report.

“I am in no way entitled To earn the notice of a honeybee,” she continued. “I was a fool to pluck that flower For my lady fair. On my honor I Swear to bring you dozens more within the hour If you give me leave to try.” She bumped up against Cassandra. “Listen traveler, if you would walk the garden paths some spring; Mind that you don't trespass, for the gardeners do sting.”

“What do you think you are doing?”

“Poetry, my lady,” Lavellan said.“You seem to be the type to secretly enjoy that sort of thing.”

“Not from the likes of you.”

“You wound me; it stings.”

“You are very clever,” Cassandra responded, dryly.

“Only the best for a princess.”

Well, if Adaar had ever even entertained the thought of intervening between the two, she now knew that doing so was no longer necessary:

Cassandra turned on the elf with a menacing glare; “I am _not_ a princess.”

By dusk, the expedition hoisted themselves up into the northern camp. The elevated outpost's infrastructure remained intact even in its abandonment, and though the camp now lacked many of its usual luxuries, without the bustle of the old Inquisition, the camp had suddenly grown more spacious.

Harding set up her operation, and if one looked closely, her every action was entirely reminiscent of a certain Nightingale.

Cole found his usual tent.

Lavellan did not take a tent at all, rolling out her bedroll, so that her back would remain to the tree.

Sera, of course, found that tent farthest from Lavellan's claimed little patch of ground.

Adaar and Cassandra retired to their own tent, as always. Adaar remained silent as they pulled their boots off, leaving them to air out. Cassandra thought the Vashoth might stay silent through the whole night, too, but Adaar shifted on the bedroll, pulling Cassandra's feet onto her lap. With gentle hands, she dried the chafed and cherry red skin. She rebuked Cassandra with her gaze as she examined the less than adequate socks.

“I believe she is flirting with me,” Cassandra said, breaking the silence.

“I've noticed,” Adaar growled. “She's quite the poet.”

“Are you jealous?” she said, in what must have been an attempt (albeit a poor one) at being coy. She pulled her legs in and shifted to straddle the Vashoth.

“Very,” she whispered, pulling Cassandra down towards her, nipping at her skin. “I don't like the idea of her attempting to regale you with poetry.”

“She compared me to an insect,” she said with a disgusted noise. “I preferred your choice: _It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss._ ”

“You remember.”

“Yes, well, it was all very romantic.”

“I thought you had critiques.”

“You are… more romantic than you know.”

“ _Lord Seeker_ ,” she said with a teasing smile. “Have you been lying to me?”

“You constantly insist on provoking me.” Cassandra looked away, staring down at her own fingers which had begun to ghost over Adaar's collarbones to her breasts. “I can have my fun, too.”

“We'll see about that,” Adaar said, and she maneuvered her fingers between the Seeker's legs.

Within seconds, Cassandra began to squirm above her, and Adaar's breath hitched in her throat, her blood hot behind her eyes.

The first time Adaar had slept with a woman (she could not, even if she tried, remember her name), she had awoken to what quickly became her worst nightmare. The woman had clung to her side all through the morning spouting shit about _feelings_. She had wanted nothing more than to peel her arm from around her waist, and when she had at last told the woman to just _go away_ , she had started to cry. Tears. A wail. A high-pitched screech of a wail. Adaar had spent the better part of an entire hour attempting to herd the blubbering woman out of her rented room.

The first time she had slept with a man hadn't been much better, and the ordeal involved an insatiable desire to be abused, a marriage proposal, and a horrifying horn fetish. The damn idiot had looked as though he had snared some sort of rare and elusive mystical creature, and she would have hit him had he not enjoyed that sort of thing.

“You're an oxwoman,” Iron-Ass Tully had said. “You're big. You've got horns. You've got that skin thing going on. Most of us look at you and see an exotic conquest. Me? I like redheads.”

And that became the problem. There was never any challenge in the scuffle. No excitement.

So she resigned herself to whores (who had most certainly been witness to far more “exotic” specimens than her) and occasionally other Tal-Vashoth (which usually involved an altogether different problem involving a separation anxiety complex with the Qun).

Even when she had found the odd match, she had always considered the itch scratched, and on her way she had gone.

She had never wanted a second night before. Or a third. Not to mention _years_ of sex with the same woman.

It made her feel… entirely inadequate. Out of her element. Foolish. Adaar pulled away from a slumbering Cassandra and knew she would not lose her. Not if she could help it.

She slipped out of the tent, and she moved between the trees before finding the Augur, clad in bearskin, waiting for her.

The Augur gestured towards the fire; “I have already drawn her to this realm,” he said, and as the spirit shivered into form, it appeared, almost, no different than any other wisp or wraith that she had seen.

It spoke: “You wish for me to touch your mind.”

“What I want is for you to _fix_ me.”

“You mortals have a tendency towards oversimplification. I cannot go to one who has no faith.”

“Faith in what?' Adaar scoffed. “The Maker? The Creators? Right. Like that all hasn't already been blown to the Fade and back.”

“I have little care for what it is you believe,” it said. “You only need to have faith.”

“A little bit of a vicious cycle, isn't it? I need you in here to fix what's broken. You won't get in here until what's broken is fixed.” Adaar stood determined before the spirit. “I only have my actions.”

“Very well,” the spirit said as it twitched in what might have been ponderment. It twisted and pulled and began to dissipate into the smoke. “Prove yourself, then. I am interested to see what you will do.”

The Augur regarded Adaar as she walked away. “You speak to the gods well.”

She merely grunted in response.

The entire exchange, however, continued to marinate in her mind as she stepped back into the tent. Cassandra shifted in the bedroll, stirring with the noise.

“Sorry,” Adaar whispered. “I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd step out for a quick walk.”

“Mmph,” Cassandra said as the Vashoth settled down beside her.

She opened her eyes. Adaar had been distant as of late. In fact, she had been distant since the moment they had left the Exalted Council behind. It… frightened her. In all her years, she had never thought that this is where she would be, held sound in the arms of a Vashoth mercenary.

She remembered cold nights. She remembered sleeping above the sheets at night so that in the dark of the mornings, before the officers arrived, she would only need to smooth the wool fabric with her hand. She remembered sore muscles, tense from dull repetitive drills, and she remembered the necessity of maintaining a visage of strength.

 _Too old. Only here because of her noble birth_. _A special case._

She had not been allowed a single moment of weakness.

And so, as with all things that are denied, she had begun to crave that little crack in her armor. To be a lady only behind closed doors. To be courted not unlike the Guard-Captain of a particular romance serial. A mere fantasy meant to placate her as she navigated her duties as Seeker of the Truth.

But then, Regalyan had arrived. A mage. A man she had stubbornly thought she could not love. An ogre had injured her leg, and so though she had been the warrior between them, he had served to protect her. Cared for her. Healed her. Once all had been said and done, once Galyan had been named Enchanter and Cassandra the Right Hand of the Divine, he had insisted upon romancing her with flowers and Orlesian treats and scandalously stolen moments.

He had been kind and gentle and soft.

But Adaar…

She could see the hardness, the skin toughened by hardships that had been wrought upon her even before the Conclave.

She could see where poachers had attempted to sever her horns from her scalp ( _A common peril_ , Adaar had said with a smirk. _This rack would fetch a high price in Tantervelle's market_ ). She could see the small gaatlok burn ( _A Ben-Hassrath encounter gone awry_ ) and the small near imperceptible scars lining her gray lips, too.

( _An old_ _Tal-Vashoth_ _merc band_ , she had said. _They heard a rumor._ _Got scared. Acted first._ _Their mistake. I left for another company and now t_ _hey still owe me a month's pay_ ).

Adaar's arm unconsciously tightened around Cassandra's waist, and she curled into the embrace, running her lips over a mottled scar spanning her shoulder. To be courted and pampered and romanced. Yes, it had been entirely ladylike, and she had secretly loved every moment. It had been everything she had ever wished for.

Until now.

Because now _she_ wanted to play the part of the Templar, fighting through bandits and stealing away into the barracks at night and climbing through windows only to surprise the overworked guardswoman with that precious stolen moment of peace. She wanted to play the part of the man who left marigolds on her desk. The man who dueled Donnen Brennokovic for her hand. She wanted to play the part of the warrior, too, who had waited, even through her rise to nobility, for her roguish pirate queen. She would come to her rescue. She would charge into the Wounded Coast and save her from the rebel sect. She would stand before the Arishok, dwarfed by his size, and duel him to the death.

She wanted to court her lady. Pamper her. Romance her.

But as she gazed upon Adaar ( _her_ Adaar; _her_ Inquisitor; _her lady_ ), she was met with the terrifying realization that she did not know how.

  
When she clamored for more,  
To mangle and to rend,  
To reave through guts and gore,  
The gods answered in kind;  
They hunted for her fire,  
Unfurled the dare, her test.  
So began the Labors,  
A legend true and raw:


	3. This Here the Dragon-Fall

**Day One of the Endeavor**

No. This isn't right. Wrong kind. Not enough.

Cassandra looked down at the bundle of embrium in her hands, examining the delicate little flowers with a stare normally reserved for demons and darkspawn. She prodded at the pedals, certain that she should have gathered more. Or a different set of flowers. Or anything else at all. _Maker, flowers? Why did she think flowers would be appropriate? This was a mistake. Of course._

She made a disgusted noise and felt tempted, suddenly, to toss the flowers off the edge of the campground.

“Cassandra?” Adaar said as she peered around the tent. “Are you there?”

“What? Yes! I… I'm here.” Cassandra, utterly flustered, hid the flowers behind her back.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course, I am. You… are here now, too. Yes.”

“You don't think I'm about to propose marriage again, are you?”

“No. I mean…” Cassandra sighed. “How did your meeting with Harding go?”

“Fine, I guess,” Adaar said. She leaned up against the tree and rubbed at the space between her horns. “There's trouble up north, Dalish clans are just disappearing, and I don't think getting the Avvar on our side will be as easy as we thought it would be.”

“You will find a way.”

Adaar shrugged. “I'll just have to… prove myself. I hear a dragon's taken roost.”

“You do like your dragons.”

“Are you sure you're all right? Lavellan isn't bothering you, is she?”

“Not at all, no…”

“You've got something behind your back.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do.” Adaar crossed her arms and smiled. “You're hiding something.”

Cassandra sighed, turning her head away as she proffered up the meager bouquet. “I picked these. They are for you.”

She became horrifyingly aware of how ridiculous the words sounded coming out of her mouth. She sounded like… Like an adolescent schoolchild. The blush crept up her neck as she continued to hold her arm outstretched before Adaar.

“For me?”

“Yes.” She looked up at Adaar and felt moderately better upon realizing that the Vashoth seemed equally out of her element. “For you.”

Adaar took the flowers into her hands, and suddenly they seemed very small. “They're nice.”

“You don't have to…”

“They're nice.”

Cassandra blushed, thoroughly embarrassed.

The Lord Seeker would have been more embarrassed, of course, if she had known that Sera and Harding had hidden up in the branches and had eavesdropped on the entire exchange. They snickered as Cassandra played with her fingers (unsure of what to do with her hands) and as Adaar held the comparatively small flowers in her hand (also unsure of what to do with her hands).

“They're hopeless,” Sera said, giggling.

Harding, on the other hand, shook her head. “That was the most awkward conversation between two people I've ever seen.”

No one noticed the way Adaar, out of view of the others, tucked the flowers into her belt.

 

**What Lies Dormant**

It had been an accident:

Cole hadn't meant to brush up against Lavellan. He had turned the corner with the full intent to retire to his tent and eat his little cakes (he had filled his pack full with only little cakes), and he had collided with her in a most un-Cole fashion. He only ate little cakes (unless, of course, he was with Adaar, in which case he would tentatively nibble on whatever it was she had chosen to eat) and he had become entirely distracted with the idea of the pastries.

And so he collided with Lavellan.

The shock. It was electric.

“ _You are like Wynne_ ,” he said with wide eyes. “Not Faith, but Wisdom.”

Cassandra, who had been sharpening her sword, stood to her feet. “Wynne. You spoke of her before. She is an abomination.”

“No, not an abomination. Abominations are shared. Two bodies in one. She is like Wynne. She was dead, and now she is not.”

“So, the Conclave did kill her,” Adaar said, her hand on Cassandra's shoulder.

“The spirit gave herself to her. Sacrificed. If Lavellan dies, the spirit will, too.” Cole looked desperately between the group, as though he could force them to just _understand_. “She is like Wynne.”

“Well, this is charming,” Lavellan said. “Please. Continue talking about me as though I'm not here.”

Adaar ignored the elf, turning to her companions. “Cole, keep watching over her. And Cassandra, if it's necessary, do it.” She returned her attentions to Lavellan. “You know how Fen'Harel's agents operate. Which means you're still useful. For now. Keep it that way.”

 

**Day Two of the Endeavor**

Cassandra hadn't known what to expect as she dragged the gurgut carcass onto the lift and into the camp. As the sweat poured down her back, it was readily apparent to her that she had not thought the idea completely through; killing the beast, even alone, had been easy enough, but it had taken her nearly the entire afternoon just to drag her kill back to camp.

Still. It would have to do. While she did not count the flowers as a failure, she could hardly claim that they had been a success. And maybe this way, she could provide Adaar with a proper night's rest.

“That's not dinner, is it?” Sera said, scrunching her face.

Cassandra grunted.

“What happened to ram? I thought you'd bag a ram.”

Cassandra grunted again.

“ _Oh_ , I get it. Ram's boring.” Sera's voice became singsong. 'You wanted to do something special. You wanted to get her something exciting to eat.”

Cassandra replaced her grunt with a stare.

But…

It was true. Though she loathed to admit it. Adaar did have a tendency to enjoy the more… exotic meats. Lurkers and deepstalkers and the occasional wyvern. On one occasion, Adaar had even grilled a spider leg over the fire. It had been, apparently, an entirely unpalatable experience, and the Vashoth had instead slathered the “meat” with her stash of deep mushroom paste. Cassandra hadn't seen how that had actually helped, but Adaar had seemed to enjoy it.

She slipped her knife into the gurgut's back, running the blade along the spine. She growled as the edge caught on bone. She had never actually skinned a gurgut before, and it dawned on her that she didn't have a single clue as to how to prepare it either.

No, she did not think this gesture all the way through.

“It's not a fish,” Lavellan said, ignoring Sera's outstretched tongue and subsequent raspberry. She tore into the skin with her own blade. “You must cut along its sides.”

“I do not require aid.”

“I think you indeed do. You are a fine warrior but you make for a poor hunter, and if we really are to eat _this_ , I would prefer to eat it sometime soon.” She rolled her eyes, sliding her knife down through its tail. “Relax, my lady. I'm not even a mage, and the spirit's barely keeping me alive as is.”

“Fine,” Casandra said, and she gritted her teeth with the admission as she watched Lavellan easily pull the skin off the gurgut's back, severing the fat.

“The spirit is weak, and it will not last,” continued the elf, suddenly feeling as though it were necessary. “I live on borrowed time.” She allowed a coy smile to spread across her face. “Although, I hear the Inquisitor lived on borrowed time as well. But with you by her side, she yet survives. Dare I say you possess magic fingers?”

“Do not get any ideas, elf.”

“My lady, I wouldn't dream of it.”

Cassandra grunted as she took over. She had watched for long enough now and was fairly certain she could butcher the meat on her own. She was determined, in a stubborn show of pride, to prepare the meat herself. It did not _truly_ matter, but…

It mattered.

After much deliberation (and after she had wrestled with cutting through thick sinews of fat), Cassandra finally decided upon skewering the freshly butchered meat, and she took great care in balancing the overstuffed spits over the firepit.

She found Adaar by the forge muttering nonsense regarding dragons while affixing a new rune to her blade.

She wagered she would not have been able to pull her away had she not arrived with the promise of food.

Cole poked at the meat before sniffing it, and he would not even taste it until Adaar herself had ripped into her own skewer. Though, when Sera gagged and reached for Cole's pack (and therefore reached for his many little cakes), he slapped her hand away. _Slapped_. Cassandra had never seen Cole do such a thing. But then, she had never seen anybody reach for one of his cakes, either. Lavellan, on the other hand, simply chewed in a rather uneventful fashion as though deep in thought. Harding, busy with her new duties as spymaster, had taken her meal in her tent.

It made for a quiet meal.

She smiled, though, as Adaar reached for another skewer, her silence attributed to the amount of food she had consumed. She smiled again when Adaar touched her hand in appreciation, blushing lightly upon realizing that the little gesture left her completely beside herself.

But then, Adaar abruptly stood.

“I'll go dry the rest,” Adaar said, ready to get back to work. “I can't let you do _everything_ , kadan. You should get some sleep.”

_By the Maker…_

Almost a success, then. At least Adaar had enjoyed the meal, if not an entirely restful night.

 

**What Lies Dormant**

The first time Lavellan met Solas, she had awoken from a deep sleep to his gentle face.

“ _Aneth ara_ ,” he said. “You were hurt in the blast of the Conclave. We have brought you here to recuperate.”

“The Conclave? What…?”

He looked away, and if she had known better, she might have recognized a hint of shame in his voice. “Destroyed. Swallowed by the hole that now scars the sky.”

“And who are you?”

“We have been watching you and your clan for some time. You are indeed… remarkable.” Solas checked over her wounds. “We are the agents of Fen'Harel.”

“The Trickster?”

“Yes,” he said with a small chuckle. “But there is a great deal more to the stories than you know.”

“There always is,” Lavellan responded. “I always did prefer his stories. Fen'Harel is a little bit of an anti-hero, isn't he?

“I suppose he is.”

“And it doesn't really matter what I think now, does it?”

“Oh?”

“ _Ma melava halani_ ,” she said, and she winced as she attempted to rouse herself from the cot.

Solas rested soothing hands over her skin, easing the pain with his magic. His eyes steeled with regret. With tragedy. “ _Mala suledin nadas_ ,” he said.

 

**Day Three of the Endeavor**

She supposed that, for all her research into the matters of romance, she should be far more capable in wooing another. Particularly when that _other_ happened to be a woman with whom she had shared a bed for years.

Adaar, however, had always been infuriatingly silent on the matter.

“I only want you,” Adaar had once said.

Infuriating. And entirely unhelpful. It also did not help that Adaar herself remained altogether oblivious in such matters.

She held her breath as she quenched the pauldron in the trough, the water turning to steam around the red hot metal. She lifted the piece up to her eyes. Good. She smiled with satisfaction; the metal hadn't warped.

She had balanced the piece of armor perfectly, after all. She had seen the way Adaar still yet remained off-balance since losing her arm at the elbow, left to adjust her fighting style entirely. The new armor would provide a counterweight, at least, as well as another measure of protection. Not a piece of masterwork. No, of course not. A little rough. A little raw.

Perfect.

It would fit beneath that new hooded cloak she seemed to so enjoy, too.

She smiled as she lined the underside with a breathable layer of halla hide.

“You know,” Harding said from behind. “Do you remember that time we went off into the Deep Roads in search of some ancient Titan? Of course, you do. I mean, how could any one forget something like that…”

Cassandra said nothing. She only raised an inquisitive brow.

Harding coughed. “Right, well, one of the Legion of the Dead dwarves… I think he had a thing for surfacers, which is kind of weird when I think about it. I mean, why would you limit yourself like that? Kind of arbitrary, don't you think?” She coughed again. “ _Right_. Anyway. He gave me this new breastplate.”

Cassandra looked down at the piece of armor in her hands.

“That,” Harding said (and she looked down at the armor too) “was his way of asking me out on a date. Lieutenant Renn had to explain it to me. _Apparently_ , the armor was some sort of weird dwarf version of a dowry.”

“Widdles made me a set of enchanted gauntlets,” Sera said as she passed the pair by. “They were lovely.”

As usual, Cassandra stiffened and blushed and made a disgusted noise (exactly in that particular order). She walked with violence and intensity away from the giggling pair, but her arms still gingerly grasped the armor. She wouldn't admit that she had indeed read the tales. Dwarven tales. Tales in which a Dwarven smith had created masterwork after masterwork and had offered each piece to the object of his infatuation, a warrior of the Legion. It had been a tragic story, of course, but it had also been so…

Romantic.

By the time Cassandra found Adaar, she had managed to allow the muscles in her neck to relax, and she strapped the armor to her shoulder herself. She found herself, of course, unable to utter a single word beneath the woman's questioning gaze. She breathed a sigh of relief when Adaar did not press her on the matter, either.

“Perfect,” Adaar had said, with a tinge of excitement. “I've been sitting up in this camp for far too long. Let's go test it out.”

 

**What Lies Dormant**

Lavellan had met _somniari_ before; there had been several Keepers and Firsts who had harbored the ability to dream. She had never thought that the Fade could be so beautiful.

She had been hesitant, at first, when Solas had offered to dream with her. But she had been eager to learn, too.

They had found themselves in Lothering. They watched as a young Hawke yanked several Templars aside, pulling them into a game of Diamondback while Bethany and Carver stole pies from their pantry. They watched, too, as the Grey Warden Mahariel tentatively approached her soon-to-be lover, her mistrust of shemlen nearly radiating from her skin.

“Do you really think she will join us?” Lavellan said, for though her own clan had steadily become more progressive than most, she still found it hard to believe that another of the People would lay with a shem.

“We must at least try.”

“You have faith in her, then.”

“I have faith in our People,” Solas said. “And I have faith in you. Will you allow me to show you more?”

She nodded. A little breathless. A little intrigued.

They watched as Lothering became nothing but land and trees and lush foliage that whispered of a time when elvhen marvels shimmered effortlessly through the land.

 

**Day Four of the Endeavor**

Adaar made a point out of finding new ways to kill dragons. There had been that first time, of course, when Adaar had climbed onto the dragon's back. In the Western Approach, Adaar plunged her blade into its eye, thrusting and twisting the hilt of her sword into the soft brain. In Crestwood, she hacked at its wings until she had severed them clean, and Emprise du Lion had been, for her, a veritable cornucopia of fun. On one occasion, she had even managed to open a dragon's underbelly, and she climbed into the beast itself before cleaving her way through its insides.

That had been… a particularly eventful battle.

One thing was for certain, though. Adaar _did not_ recycle kills.

So when, with but a single arm, Adaar mounted the dragon's back, it had been a surprise. Until, that is, Cassandra realized that they had not yet clipped the dragon's wings.

She did not blaspheme often, but…

 _Shit_.

The dragon took to the air.

With a one-armed Inquisitor on its back.

At the very least, Adaar seemed to know by instinct the exact right ways with which to twist her blade into the dragon, steering the beast quite expertly through the crisp Frostback air. The dragon, for its part, did its very best to shake the Inquisitor off, at times looping and attempting to rail against the Vashoth's machinations.

Avvar throughout the Basin emerged from their huts to bear witness to this strange sight.

To no avail. Adaar threw her weight into the dragon, bringing it lower to the ground and steering it back towards the roost and a now irate Seeker. Shivering from bloodloss, the dragon crashed into the trees, cutting through the dirt.

When Cassandra finally arrived with the rest of the party in tow, her anger melted the way at the sight of Adaar standing triumphant atop the beast's head as though she were a dog presenting a dead bird to its owner.

Except the dead bird happened to be a giant high dragon.

Adaar pulled Cassandra atop the dragon with her.

Cassandra would have felt utterly flattered had Adaar not managed to inadvertently upstage her efforts in romance. A dragon. The Inquisitor had given her a dragon.

Cassandra skulked through their journey back to camp.

“You've been trying to court her, eh, Seeker?” Sera looked positively beside herself. “Flowers. Hunting weird creepy things. _Armor_.”

Frustration burst through Cassandra before she could stop it; “She has not noticed!”

“Ha! That's funny. I mean, not for you but you have to admit it _is_ kind of funny. Why don't you just tell her.”

“That would… miss the point entirely.”

Sera chuckled. “You'll get there, Seeker.”

 

**What Lies Dormant**

Solas stepped into the grove. It had been two seasons he had seen Lavellan last. Two seasons since he had broken her heart. And it had been three years since the Conclave. He had made a strange decision that day in this very grove. Impulsive and idiotic.

He had jeopardized everything.

The mark had found Adaar's hand. Corypheus had become a threat without measure. He hadn't needed to do it:

Lavellan had intrigued him. A shimmering stark note against the silence. And so he had watched her from afar. Manipulated events. Drew her to the Conclave. She could have yet become an agent of Fen'Harel, and he would have saved this one slice of music from the grip of this bleak new world. But he could not have predicted her death. He could not have predicted Corypheus, and he could not have predicted Adaar.

And so he had momentarily slipped away from the Inquisition.

He had found the grove, and he had found the spirit, too, an old friend.

“It is much to ask, I know,” he had said. “But I cannot allow her to perish. Not like this. It was my doing and it was _needless_.”

The spirit had been wise and could see into Fen'Harel's old heart.

It did not appear again until it found the remains of Lavellan's lingering flame, a flame that had become mangled beneath the wreckage of the failed Conclave.

 

**Day Five of the Endeavor**

Cassandra had only just returned from Stone-Bear Hold in what had been an attempt to confer with the Thane regarding the recently slayed dragon. Thane Sun-Hair had been glad to see the beast go and had been just as eager to trade for the dragon's various boons. Finally, they had settled upon attributing the kill to an anonymous hunter, and once all had been said and done, the Lord Seeker found herself eager to make it back to camp.

The camp, though, had become suspiciously empty. Cole and Harding had sequestered themselves away into their own respective tents, and Sera had apparently appointed herself on “demon watch” for the rest of the night.

The Inquisitor was nowhere to be found on the grounds.

Reluctantly, Cassandra retired to their tent.

What she _did_ find left her speechless. Stopped her. Left her frozen on her feet.

“Cassandra!” Adaar looked as though she were a child who had just been caught pilfering candy. “You're early.”

“What is this?”

The walls of the tent had been covered with a ridiculous amount of embrium (stray petals had even managed to find its way into Adaar's hair). A meal of hearty stew (likely made from their stores of dried gurgut) had been laid out onto the ground, and Cassandra could see, even, the set of armor that had been tucked into the corner, the same set of armor that had been burned and bent in the scuffle with the dragon. Cassandra could see, even through the corner of her eye, that the metal had been meticulously mended.

She looked up at Adaar who suddenly appeared very sheepish.

“Is this all right?” Adaar said, rubbing at the back of her neck. “I know I've been distant lately, and… I thought you were… you know.” She gestured around at the tent. “Hinting at something.”

Cassandra gaped.

She… She thought… She had completely missed the point.

“I didn't get anything wrong, did I?”

Cassandra pulled Adaar close. “No, you did not. Not at all.”

They ate. And talked. And once again, Cassandra allowed herself to be courted and flattered and romanced. But when Adaar swept the flowers from the bedroll, shifting to slip her hand between Cassandra's legs, she grabbed it and thrust it away. Pinned it above her head. Relished in the way her nostrils flared. In the way Adaar halfheartedly struggled.

She slid down, pressing her lips to the insides of gray thighs.

Adaar bucked.

Grasped a handful of short hair. Bit her lip as little whimpers emerged from her throat. Arched her back as adrenaline spread like a fire through her chest.

Cassandra nipped and teased and pressed her tongue against Adaar, anything – everything – that would pull the whine and moans from Adaar's lips. The light begging for more. Just a little more. Right there. Right now. _Please_.

The Lord Seeker held the Inquisitor tight, her release rolling violently through her for what would only be the first time that night.

This, at least, she could do. This, at least, Adaar would understand.

 

The dragon howled with heat,  
With hatred in its heart.  
It cursed the stone and sky  
And swallowed all who crossed.  
But our hero did rage;  
She rode the beast sky-bound;  
She wrangled it to heel,  
This here the Dragon-Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Cass. She's trying so very hard.


	4. Settling Like a Curse

The hulking figure shivered. He had heard that the South would be cold, and he supposed that with a name like the _Frost_ backs, he should not have expected any differently. Maybe he could have even prepared. Of course, it wasn't as though shirts would fit all that easily over his head, and if he could avoid having to violently engage tangling with a piece of fabric… Well, he would gladly entertain the delusion that the Frostbacks was nothing more than an ironic title for a pleasantly warm locale.

_Damn his nipples were frozen._

Snow and wind and sleet pelted against his face, stinging his numb skin.

He would have to find her soon. Get warm. Eat food. Thaw out his nipples. Truthfully, according to his map, he should have found the camp that morning. The map, though, had become soggy on account of the storm and had thusly ripped in two. It certainly didn't help that the Basin had been blanketed with a thick layer of snow, rendering the landscape completely uniform.

Yelling. Shouts in the distance. Commotion.

Yes, commotion.

Probably her. It better be her. If not, he'd most likely be without shelter for the night, and his nipples would fall off. And if his nipples fell off, he'd kill her himself.

Ah, a set of horns. Excellent.

His nipples wouldn't fall off after all.

She commanded the scene quite brilliantly, and her cape flowed about her quite majestically. He considered, for a moment, whether or not it would be appropriate to include so many adverbs in the poem. _No,_ he thought, _there can never be too many adverbs._ Of course, as always, he'd just have to regale her later and let her decide for herself.

Oh. A pack of beasts. Probably driven mad by the sudden storm. He watched as they approached the party.

And he smashed the monsters' heads with his lute.

Repeatedly.

One of the little humans pulled him back by his scruff; “I don't know who you are, Qunari, but make yourself useful and stop hitting things with your staff. We need you to melt away the snow.”

“ _First_ ,” he said, his deep voice horrified. “It's _Tal-Vashoth_. Second, I was saving you from a pack of monsters. _Third_ , it's not a staff. That would make me a _mage_. This is a musical instrument with which I compose ballads. You heathen.”

“Those were _snowfleurs,_ idiot. Ugh, I do not have time to argue with you. _Melt the snow_. There are people buried beneath the drift.”

He sighed. Very well. No Qunari or Ben-Hassrath here anyway. Probably. He warmed his hands; he had also never been all too adept in conjuring fire, but he might as well do his part or the sharp little human would… Oh. The little human. _Oh_.

“You're the sharp one!” he exclaimed, clapping her on the back and interrupting her conference with the strange boy.

“Quiet,” she barkedbefore turning back to boy. “Cole, can you hear them?”

“Yes. Scared. Cold. Can't move. Getting hard to breathe. _There_.” He began pointing frantically towards various sites. “And there, too. Quickly. They don't have long.”

Hm. That was… strange.

* * *

 

Thane Sun-Hair approached Adaar from behind; “Inquisitor First-Thaw,” she yelled over the wind. “The reinforcements from my hold have arrived.”

“Good.” Adaar remained calm through the commotion. “My people will point out where to dig. Do you have mages?”

“Not many,” the Thane admitted. “This winter is foreign. Early. We have been caught unprepared. We have brought only those we could spare.”

“Will any one else come?”

“Fennec-Tooth Hold swore a blood-oath to us and no other. We are all they have.”

“Well, we don't have time to unearth an entire hold. They'll suffocate before we can get to them.”

“Then we save who we can. We should not remain here long, Inquisitor. This Winter-Curse… It is clear we have offended the gods in some manner.”

Anger roused her. “ _No_. We prove to them that we're worthy. We aren't _milk-drinkers_.”

“Very well.” The Thane leaned back, nodding her approval. The Inquisitor had taken to Avvar culture better than most. “What do you suggest?”

“Lyrium. It will burn through the snow. It may even accelerate what heat the mages can provide.” Adaar dismissed Thane Sun-Hair's brief flash of concern. “I've built something of a natural immunity to lyrium. I'll handle it. Have your mages coordinate with Cole. It will be quicker if we can focus our efforts.” She looked Sun-Hair in the eyes. “We will either save them all or save none.”

The Thane nodded, agreeing to the plan while motioning to her forces. “The other holds may yet stand behind your banner, First-Thaw. You are a better ally than foe.”

Adaar grunted. No time to think. Someone (she didn't remember who) handed her vial after vial of lyrium. She ignored the brief tingle as she crushed each glass over the snow, the mysterious life-blood hissing and glowing as it made contact with the frost. Adaar trudged through the landscape, surrounded by the field of lyrium mist.

She gave the command: “ _Now_.”

The lyrium ignited.

* * *

 

Lace Harding looked over the snow shelters proudly. The Stone-Bear warriors had lent themselves nicely to creating the extensive outpost, and the survivors of Fennec-Tooth Hold would finally be allowed a measure of insulated heat.

She would appreciate the rest, too. Being one of the few who could wholly resist the effects of lyrium, she had spent the better part of the evening restlessly dragging hypothermic Avvar towards warmth. Not that she minded, of course. It was nice to be able to step away from her duties as spymaster for a change.

Adaar emerged from her own shelter, finding her way, as was expected, to Cassandra.

Though, Cassandra seemed less than pleased with her current station as she had been utterly fruitless in her attempts to fend off the stranger who had arrived in their time of need.

“Kaariss,” growled Adaar, addressing the Tal-Vashoth. “How the hell did you get here?”

“I flew here on a winged nug,” he responded. “ _I walked_ , boss. Through the cold. For miles. It was torture. But if you really must know, Shokrakar sent me.”

“Oh?”

“They've set up in Kirkwall with your dwarf, and now she has a few messages for the esteemed spymaster. You know how she doesn't like using the birds.”

It was true. Shokrakar had never trusted secrets to any but their own men and had always suspected that the birds could be easily intercepted (“ _They can't carry swords,_ ” she had argued. “ _How do you expect them to fight?_ ”). Leliana, though, had insisted upon her favored messengers. She had also been horrified to learn that Shokrakar had eaten one of the birds in rebellion.

Adaar suspected that the bard-turned-Divine had never quite forgiven the either of them for that debacle.

“Besides,” continued Kaariss, “rumors of a one-armed woman riding a dragon's back have begun to circulate across Thedas. And if _we_ heard it… Figured you might start to see some trouble. Now that I'm here, it seems we were right. This storm is magic.”

“You said you were not a mage,” Cassandra remarked dryly, suddenly feeling very much on the outside.

“In my defense, it's hard to know when a person might sprout horns while reciting passages out of the Qun. And my staff does actually double as a lute. I'm all for practicality.”

“He's a hedge witch,” clarified Adaar, answering Cassandra's silent question. “And he's a very lucky Tal-Vashoth. I recruited him for the Valo-Kas out of Rivain.”

“Llomerryn, specifically. It's a very tolerant place when you're not being sold off into slavery.” Kaariss regarded Adaar. “If our esteemed leader's parents hadn't settled on some place as backwards as the Free Marches, I imagine she might have turned out to be an entirely different person. She might have even slept with me.”

“I would rather swallow qamek than sleep with you.”

“Well, that's uncalled for.”

Cassandra coughed, interrupting the very bizarre exchange. “You said this storm was caused by magic.”

“Yes. Right. I didn't notice it at first, but the longer I'm here… Someone created this. It's definitely magic. Old magic.”

* * *

 

Lavellan, though not a mage, knew poultices and battle-field medicine enough to pick up some of the slack in tending to the Fennec-Tooth survivors. She eased the frostbite with a thick and pasty salve of elfroot and frostrock. The hypothermia… Little could be done beyond wrapping the victims with dry blankets.

Little could be done beyond simply hoping for the best.

She thought, momentarily, of the way Cassandra had insisted upon saving every last person, even when the sun had already set and they had lost what little warmth the daylight had provided. Cassandra hadn't given up. Not until every Fennec-Tooth Avvar had either been extracted or had, with absolute certainty, drawn their last breath.

And she had done it because she had cared. About the person, not the people.

She imagined Cassandra would have reacted in the same manner if she had been tasked to save elves or Qunari or dwarves. She would save them because she is a warrior and they are civilians, and with all her brashness and bluntness and staunch ideals, Cassandra was not a person who could simply stand by.

Cassandra _cared_.

Solas ( _Fen'Harel_ , she reminded herself) had cared. But he had also sacrificed easily, his decisions hidden beneath the cowl of solemn resignation. _It is unfortunate, but it must be done_ , he might say. Above all else, he cared only for a world that did not exist, one he would stop at nothing to bring back into being.

Cassandra was everything Solas was not.

They had come across an injured pair of Avvar hunters. In truth, it had been little trouble for someone of Lavellan's skill to quickly care for their wounds, but even she had noticed something minute change in Cassandra's eyes.

“It seems I have misjudged you,” the Lord Seeker had said. “Even after all these years, it is a mistake I continue to make. I can be… impulsive in my judgments.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You saved those people.”

Lavellan had chuckled with a hint of self-depreciation. “And the spirit spoke to you, didn't he?”

“You mean Cole. Yes, he did. He often makes very little sense, but he has helped me a great deal over the years. He has provided… perspective.”

Lavellan smiled with the memory. Yes, Cassandra was everything Solas was not.

Cole crawled into the shelter and, without a word of instruction from her lips, he began to grind the frostrock with elfroot beneath swift strokes of the pestle.

“Your mind is very loud,” he said.

“Silly me. I'll get right on that, then. Muffle it up for you.”

“You don't need to do that. I only want to help.”

“Do you feel kinship with me? Because of the spirit?”

“I am a person now,” Cole said, as though it were the most obvious fact in all of Thedas.

Lavellan added a distilling agent to her own pasty concoction, putting the final touches on the latest batch of poultice. “Right. My mistake.”

“Solas was loud, too. I couldn't understand the words, but I knew that they were loud. He hurt, too.”

“His name is Fen'Harel.”

“And you are Lavellan,” Cole responded. “You are real. You _do_ exist. He only pretended because it hurt.”

“I thought you couldn't understand his head.”

“I could see it in his face. He is not as good at hiding his face.” Cole scraped the paste into the flask before handing it to Lavellan for distillation. “He would not bind me. I asked him, because I was afraid. I thought I would become a monster. He still refused. I think… I think he would not bind you, too.”

Lavellan became quiet. “If he does care for me, then why is he doing this?”

“I don't know.”

She sighed. Solas would always be a mystery. Even his touches and kisses had been tinged with subtle hints of enigma. She wondered what it might be like to touch Cassandra. To kiss her. _She_ was not a mystery. Not an enigma.

Brash and strong and true.

Cole darkened. He stilled the pestle in his hand.

“I want to help you,” he said, “but if you hurt them, I will hurt you.”

The Spirit of Wisdom told her to be frightened. Cole, though, once again resumed his task, grinding the herbs and stone with even precision. In the settled silence, her heart told her not to care.

Lavellan couldn't help but wonder if Cassandra had noticed the little flowers she had left by her armor.

* * *

 

Kaariss stood before Adaar, Cassandra, and Thane Sun-Hair, his explanation of the storm that swirled above their heads heavy on his lips; “This is blood magic. Nothing else could have caused a cataclysm of this magnitude.”

Cassandra felt her blood chill. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Lavellan said as she emerged from what had become the medical shelter.. “It is elvhen.”

“Fen'Harel?” Adaar asked.

“Yes and no. This is not his magic, but I suspect it has been cast in his name.” Lavellan became quiet. Reluctant. In truth, she had known all this as soon as the strange storm had arrived. “It is a magic known only to my clan.”

Sympathetic dread fell across the group, dense and heavy as silence.

Adaar was the only one to speak. “How do we stop it?”

“We must kill those who cast it,” Lavellan said. “This storm. It would have taken the might of every mage in our clan. Or what remains of it.” She looked up with hardened eyes. “My clan was wrongly slaughtered by humans. It is no wonder they flocked to Fen'Harel. I assure you. They will not back down from this fight.”

“And you?” Cassandra implored.

“I will do what I must for the good of _this_ world.”

* * *

 

The gaatlok Kaariss had the sense to pack sat heavy on Adaar's back; the avalanche that had befallen Fennec-Tooth Hold had only served to spark Adaar's imagination. Once they had located where it was that Lavellan's clan had camped, the rest of the plan had fallen neatly into place.

Lavellan, for her part, remained silent beside her. Not that Adaar would have known what to say. She could not fathom, quite literally, how Lavellan might feel regarding the impending decimation of her clan.

Rage, Adaar could manage. Rage was easy. Easy to coax. Easy to wrangle.

Consoling Lavellan? She did not have a single clue.

Yet another reminder. She had not been blind, after all. She had noticed Lavellan's recent attempts to woo Cassandra. Of course, she was not afraid of _losing_ the Seeker. Of course, not. This did not change the fact that Adaar had begun to feel _less than_. Actions could only go so far; what mattered were the _feelings_. In truth, Adaar did not even know how to define love.

She had not even loved her parents (a fact they had begrudgingly accepted as their own doing). She hadn't hated them, but she hadn't loved them either. She simply did not know what shape or form _love_ was supposed to take.

She did not want to fool Cassandra. She did not want to trick her.

But all that would change with the Spirit of Faith. The Rite would be broken, and finally, she would _understand_. She only wished to understand. To be offered, at least once, the opportunity to truly and honestly reciprocate.

She sighed. She did not like feeling this way. The uncertainty. It grated at her like salt digging into an open wound.

Lavellan broached the silence.“Why did you stay on as Inquisitor?”

“Because I could.”

Lavellan snorted in response. “You're Tal-Vashoth. You don't believe in anything. I don't even think you care for much of anything at all. And yet you remained with the Inquisition as the Herald of Andraste.”

“Don't presume to know me.”

“I am simply curious.”

“It was fun,” Adaar said, acquiescing. “I fought dragons. And giants.”

“You can't be serious.”

“What would you like me to say?” Adaar frowned, digging her toe into the ice. “You judge me, but _you_ stood with Solas.”

“Fen'Harel,” Lavellan corrected.

“You loved him, didn't you?”

“What makes you say that?”

It was Adaar's turn to snort. “I recognize the look on your face when you talk about him.”

“He was not the man I thought he was.”

Adaar wondered if she would have been like Lavellan. Impassioned. Moved thoroughly by the plight of others. She wondered what it might feel like to feel pain so intensely. Would it feel akin to a blade running through her skin? To a dragon's breath? Would it feel alike to the sensation of bone fracturing and snapping and shattering?

She wondered how Cassandra's own emotions might have swirled through the Seeker's chest.

Did she hurt?

“You don't think I deserve her,” Adaar said, gripping hard onto the rock, her stump of an arm dangling uselessly beside her.

Lavellan, beside her, was far more quick up the face. “Your words. Not mine.”

“We're both thinking it,” she said. Her muscles strained as she pulled herself onto the summit, and her throat strained too as she attempted to steady her breath. “I'm trying too be the right person. There's your answer. To all your questions.”

Adaar and Lavellan, together on the summit, looked down upon the valley below. The campfires flickered in the distance, illuminating the thin sails adorning each aravel.

 

Then Long-Dark descended,  
Settling like a curse,  
A Winter-Curse that came  
To crush the harvest brush.  
The frost stole blood and breath  
From Fennec-Tooth and kith;  
Fear not, First-Thaw arrived  
To breathe life back to all.


	5. Idle Under the Eye

The Avvar made for good patients. Few harbored a deep aversion of magic and most seemed to actually favor the fact that he was an oxman. “Nice to be talking up for a change,” they would say. “Lowlanders are usually so small.”

Kaariss settled in quite nicely inside the shelter, indulging in his meal of roast snowfleur (damn those beasts) and hot cocoa (the only good thing to have ever come out of the Qun). He smiled when Cassandra sat beside him with a huff.

“So,” he said, with a deep voice that did not quite match his flowered words. “How did it start?”

Cassandra let out a nervous cough. “We were… fighting a dragon.”

“Well, _that_ bit's unsurprising, at least.” Kaariss tuned his lute. “I never thought I'd see Little Boss settle down.”

Cassandra lifted a brow; “ _Little_ Boss?”

“Not little to _you_ , I suppose. But you haven't seen Shokrakar. I swear, it _must_ be something she eats…”

He handed her a bottle and watched as she lifted it to her lips. She did her very best to hold the liquor down without displaying her distaste

“You handle Maraas-Lok well,” he said.

“And you are testing me.” Cassandra, on the other hand, wasted no time in getting to the heart of the point; “How well do you… How well do you know her?”

“Better than most, but to tell the truth, her Inquisition kith may now have us rivaled. I'm honestly surprised she's stayed with you lot for as long as she has. No offense.”

She was, in fact, very much prepared to take offense; “What do you mean?”

“How shall I put it? She's a little stir-crazy. Gets bored at the drop of a hat. She built up a bit of reputation for herself, you know. No one ever knew her to stay with one company for longer than a year. Two years max.”

“But the Valo-Kas…”

“She can't get rid of us. Taarlok acts like he never left the Qun, pattering on beside her like a mabari bodyguard, and Shokrakar won't run the company without her.” He shrugged. “As soon as she gets bored and picks up sticks, we just up and follow along. Why else do you think we'd go along with this Inquisition nonsense?”

Kaariss began to strum his fingers lazily against the strings of his lute.

“The fact that she's been with you for so long is just as perplexing,” he continued, plucking at another string.

She nearly growled. “We have been through a great deal together.”

“Yes,” he said, leaning back in consideration. “I admit that she has changed. Somewhat.”

In the distance, the mountain rumbled with the power with ignited blackpowder, rocks and snow and mud thundering down into a faraway valley.

Cassandra fiddled with the bottle. “Will you tell me about her?”

“Ah. This must be regarding your recent failed attempts to court our illustrious leader. Your elf told me _everything_.”

“That Sera…” She flushed. She would have to have words with Sera… She was not… She had not been… _Maker, yes she had_. “I simply want to… properly romance her.”

“You're out of luck, though. No one knows what makes her tick, and you're sailing uncharted waters. No one has made it as far as you have.”

He leaned forward suddenly, regarding her carefully. Cassandra, for her part, leaned back in response. Kaariss continued to examine her.

“That's it. You seduced her,” he finally said with an accusatory tone.

“I did no such thing!”

“Is that so?”

“You… you make it sound so crass!”

Kaariss laughed, nearly shaking the shelter with his voice. “If it isn't crass, little human, you aren't doing it right.”

“I am beginning to understand why it is Shokrakar sent you to us,” she said with a disgusted noise.

He took the bottle from her hands, taking a deep long swig himself.

“Let me be clear, though. If it weren't for Adaar and Shokrakar… Ashaad and I would still be huddled up in that tiny Rivaini hut trying to make a living out of hawking shellfish. That is, if we hadn't already been castrated by the Qun. Do us a solid. Try not to break her heart.” He softened his gaze as he put the bottle of Maraas-Lok aside. “We both know it's possible. Even if she doesn't.”

“Is this the part where will you tell me that you will kill me?”

“Heavens, no,” he said. “Though, I wager Katoh might find a way to have explosives slipped into your breeches. And Sata-Kas…” He shuddered. “He was once a slave to a magister who had a bit of a bizarre sense of humor. You _don't_ want Shokrakar to sic him on you.”

Cassandra smiled, secretly pleased. The “threat” made her feel like a suitor. Her skin began to tingle as she thought of Adaar, up on the mountain. The thought tickled her neck.

Kaariss nudged her. “So, Shokrakar won't tell me but… How _is_ the boss in bed?”

Cassandra would have blushed.

If there had been time.

Shouts. The clang of frost-laden iron. The squeak of leather boots crushing through stale layers of snow. The _thiwck_ and the _thwack_ of arrows cutting through the air.

And a flash of magic. _The_ flash of magic.

Kaariss stood, his hand crackling with Fade-touched sparks. Cassandra had stood, too, but by the time she had pulled the sword from her waist, it had already been too late.

Blood magic. Quick and unforgiving and cruel. Relentless when left unbidden. A torrential wave of momentum. The Dalish mage descended from behind. Surging with power. Rending the blood that flowed through the Seeker's veins. Pull. Tug. Twist. Strain.

Pull. Tug. Twist. Strain.

Kaariss had time only to erect a barrier, his own blood beginning to turn.

He closed his eyes. Touched the Fade. He curled dreams into his palm and spooled ethereal threads around his fingers. A flick of his wrist. He smothered the mage with the Veil.

He crushed the lithe figure with an abyssal fist.

He did not open his eyes again until all he could hear was the whistle of wind through the basin.

* * *

 

“The storm hasn't let up,” said Adaar over the wind.

“We stalled them,” Lavellan responded. She looked down into the engulfed valley. She thought, almost, that she could see the tips of the aravels. “That is what matters. It would have taken the blood of every hunter in our clan to fuel a storm of this magnitude. Without a power source… The Keeper cannot keep this up for much longer.”

“And what happens when she looks elsewhere?”

Lavellan clenched her fist as she braced herself against the frost. “We will have to kill her.”

“Will you be able?”

“I have already nailed the final stake into my clan's coffin.” Lavellan turned to face Adaar. “How can you ask me that?”

“From where we stood, their deaths were anonymous. This will be different.”

“How would you know?”

“I don't,” Adaar admitted. “But I do know that you don't have to be the one to do it.”

“Who, then? _You_?”

“Yes.”

“I--” Lavellan paused. She took a moment. Stilled her passions. “Thank you. But no. I must be the one.”

Adaar nodded before turning away to begin the descent, wordlessly and easily accepting Lavellan's ultimatum. Lavellan wondered what it might be like to be Adaar. To quell emotion with effort no more taxing than a blink. She would not have the memories burned into her mind. Memories of gathering around the Hahren at night. Her first hunt. The sting of her vallaslin, chased away by her immense pride. The honor of representing the clan at Arlathvhen. The excitement.

She remembered the gentle words of her Keeper, the day she had left for the Conclave.

The armor she had received as a gift.

She wondered what it might be like to be Adaar. To not worry. To not feel.

The Vashoth, for her part, systematically moved thorough the mountain pass, and she remained blank in the face of the storm.

* * *

 

The single blood mage had managed to decimate the entire southern portion of the temporary camp. Harding nursed a fractured arm as she coordinated the restructuring of their defense. The blood mage had cleaved through the night watch, pure and simple. A suicide attack. A successful suicide attack.

She grimaced as she caught glimpse of Adaar and Lavellan making their return.

“What the hell happened?”

Harding gestured towards the covered corpse. “Blood mage. Caught us by surprise. I've already sent word to Thane Sun-Hair, but she left when you did.” She looked up at Adaar; “Inquisitor,” she tried to say.

“He was First to the Keeper,” Lavellan said, quiet as she uncovered the body. “He was supposed to have gone to the Conclave. But I insisted.”

Harding tugged on Adaar's armor again, interrupting Lavellan. “ _Inquisitor_. You need to speak to Kaariss. It's Seeker Pentaghast.”

Adaar felt herself go cold.

She blustered forward. Stumbled.

She found the Seeker in the medical shelter, though she had needed to scan through the room first, cataloging the casualties with her eyes. Kaariss guided her towards Cassandra's side.

“They're in shock,” he said. “We keep them warm, and we hope for the best.”

Words caught against the insides of her throat, and even when she could force the syllables up, they stuck to the roof of her mouth. Cassandra, like every other afflicted man in the sheltered, had been rendered pale. Short of breath. Clammy skin. None of the fiery dragon she had become accustomed to, and she became overwhelmed with the urge to poke Cassandra between the ribs as though the prodding might rouse her and force her to knit her eyebrows together once more.

She felt like a child. Lost.

Lavellan appeared from behind her, squeezing into the forefront, concern painted across her face, etched beneath her vallaslin. She reached, almost, for the Seeker. “How did this happen?”

“The worst had passed before we could even grab our weapons,” Kaariss said. “I'm doing what I can to keep their body temperatures up.”

“If we do not do more, they may not survive.” Lavellan examined their supplies, quickly formulating a plan. “Step aside. I have seen this before. We will need to find a way to increase their blood flow.”

Adaar stumbled back into a nearby stool, her eyes still yet trained on the Seeker.

Like Redcliffe. Cassandra would wake, and red lyrium would grow from he skin, and it would crust, and it would glow, and even then there would be nothing that Adaar could do. Lavellan rushed around her… conferring with the mages… preparing salves… preparing poultices… her way of coping, maybe…

The noise flowed numbly around Adaar's ears.

Cassandra's eyes peeked open. Only slightly. But enough. Disoriented. But awake. Do something. _Quickly_ , do something. Help her. Her eyes shifted from side to side, still riddled with sleep. _Help her._

Adaar scrambled to grab the flask from her hip, moving to carefully bring the water to the Seeker's lips.

Lavellan violently yanked her arm away before a single drop could fall, forcing the flask to the floor. “What do you think you're doing?”

“I was just…”

“Well, you shouldn't,” she said, her voice biting with the stress of treating the patients. “You'd only make her worse.”

Lavellan took her place beside Cassandra's side, applying a salve that soothed the Seeker back into a calm and healing sleep. Adaar, though, could not decide what to do with her hands. She leaned over to grab the fallen flask, her vast size becoming readily apparent as she knocked a nearby table over, sending its contents clattering to the ground, too.

Lavellan grabbed her. “You need to leave.”

“Stop it.” Adaar pulled away from the elf's grasp, inadvertantly crushing nearly everything that had fallen beneath her feet. “Let go of me.”

“You've done enough,” Lavellan said, and she stepped away from her tasks to pull the bewildered Adaar out of the shelter. “I need you stay here.”

“No, get out of my way.”

Lavellan pushed Adaar back, brimming with every ounce of week's frustration that had begun to knot in her back. “Right now, all you're doing is taking up space. You will stay here.”

“ _I'm the Inquisitor_.” Adaar attempted to push her way back in. “You can't keep me from--”

“--Yes, you're the Inquisitor,” interrupted the elf. “The Herald of Andraste. Titles that should not even belong to you.” She thought of the remains of her clan, now buried beneath snow. She thought of her Keeper and of the misguided young first who now lay dead. She thought of Solas, and she thought of Cassandra, too. Lavellan pressed a finger into Adaar's chest. “You were unintended.”

Adaar stepped back. “He intended for _you_ to bear the Anchor.”

“Solas believed I could survive it,” she said, and she closed her eyes, attempting to calm herself as she inhaled through her nose. “Now, if you're done, I have work to do.”

Lavellan retreated with purpose in her step.

Adaar could only sit back, settling into the snow drift. She did not do well with idle hands. She could not beat this affliction into submission. She could not swing her sword and she could not fire a bolt. She could do nothing but sit. Thinking.

She abhorred doing so.

Kaariss emerged from the shelter, too, his magical talents apparently no longer necessary. With a frame larger than even that of Adaar, he probably had been more trouble than he was worth. He dug a neat little seat beside her before settling down.

“Hey, boss,” he said.

“Hrmph.”

Kaariss dug into the snow with his foot, swirling the frost into a slush. He plucked at his lute, too, in what became a sorry attempt to fill the silence.

“You know, whenever you want to pick up sticks, we'll be right behind you.” Kaariss continued to dig at the drift with his foot, even as the snow melted into his boots, soaking into his socks “There are other jobs.”

“No, not this time,” Adaar said. “There are no other jobs.”

Kaariss nodded, and he followed his mentor's eyes towards the shelter where the sharp little human lay. “Okay, boss. You got it.”

 

While our kin stirred awake,  
Leaf-ears yet called the curse,  
Idle under the eye,  
Hiding from what they wrought.  
So First-Thaw climbed and found  
The Father's mountain-throne.  
She thundered through the frost  
And buried leaf-ear blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For me, fanfic is like... a novelist's coloring book. So, I like to stick as close to canon lore as possible. That being said, there's not really all that much regarding the Valo-Kas, which is a shame, because I would have loved to see more of all the Inquisitor's origin stories a la DA:O. I started off only coming up with something for Kaariss, but I got carried away and ended up coming up with crap for all the known live members based on their names and what's given. If anyone's interested, I'll find a way to incorporate more of it into later chapters.


	6. Butchery at Her Feet

Keeper Istimaethoriel sputtered with blood; “I am sorry, da'len.”

“What did he say to you?” Lavellan's hand shook, her fingers still wrapped around the blood-soaked dagger. “Why would you do this?”

“He did nothing. The _Duke_ slaughtered our people,” the Keeper said. “But Fen'Harel will guide us now. We will finally be safe. You must see.”

“There is nothing safe about this.”

Even in that moment, with damp and stuttered words, Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel spoke with a commanding certainty that can only be derived from an honest belief and the truest of intentions. Even as she faltered, words drifting, she spoke as a teacher.

“We were already dying, da'len. Through our sacrifice, we will live, and that is what truly matters.”

“ _Fen'Harel ma halam,_ ” Lavellan said, but the Keeper had already died.

Adaar's shadow fell over the prone corpse. She remained silent behind Lavellan, watching as the elf cradled the woman who had once stood larger than life ( _a young girl, one amongst many, prepares to receive her vallaslin; the Keeper lays a hand on her shoulder before moving_ _on_ _to the next; she will guide us;_ _she will lead us_ ).

“The Avvar are ready to leave,” Adaar finally said.

Lavellan's voice was rough with exertion. “I need a moment.”

She burned the body. There would not be time for a popular burial, and the Avvar, battle-worn from the trying raid would likely refuse to carry the Keeper's body through the long trek back. The flames swirled beautifully, but the smell engulfed her nose and she found it to be rancid.

When she emerged from the cave, now her Keeper's tomb, few words were required. The Avvar warriors, bloodied from Istimaethoriel's magic, limped triumphantly home. Lavellan grabbed handfuls of snow as she walked, cleaning the creases of her palm until her fingers became numb. The skies had cleared and the winds had stilled, but the Frostback Basin had never been warm to begin with.

Adaar was reminded of Breaches and rifts, only now no scar had been left in the sky to remind them of the blood magic that had flowed freely through the veins of the basin.

The storm had passed quietly to be remembered truly for only one more season. They might sing of it, yes, and of the tragedies wrought and the battles won. But not for long, fated to become replaced by inevitably grander tales.

Adaar, in truth, had little patience for these tales. She had only ever tolerated them at best. But then Cassandra had read to her, tentatively and with a slight, occasional self-conscious stutter. And though, even then, she had cared little for the tales themselves, she had listened to her voice with rapt attention, savoring every lilt as she might a dragon's cry.

She quickened her gait as a horse hurries back towards the barn, the scent of hay and alfalfa thick in its nostrils.

When she arrived at camp, Harding dutifully delivered news from the rest of Thedas, of Dorian's injuries and of the Iron Bull's daring rescue. With quick words, she explained that new arrangements would have to be made on behalf of Fennec-Tooth; the shelters had already begun to melt.

Sera interrupted Harding with her own reports, and she relayed, in a most sarcastic manner, that she had made fast friends with several of Fennec-Tooth's more rowdy soldiers and that they had spent the past few days slinging snow at unassuming heads.

Cole, though, silently fell in step by her side, likely exhausted by the pained and scuttling minds of the injured.

Kaariss regaled her with an out-of-tune poem.

Adaar blustered past them all, shedding her cloak as she slipped into the medical shelter. The chaos that had once filled the shelter in the days before the raid had quieted, and Adaar was able to, at last, squeeze herself into the small space beside Cassandra's cot.

She did not leave again.

But she did not, of course, have to wait much longer.

Cassandra, as might be expected of someone of her constitution, was one of the first to rouse from sleep. Adaar grabbed for her hand and watched as eyes fluttered and adjusted to the light. Cassandra turned her head when she felt calloused fingers release her hand before moving to wipe the sweat from her cheek.

Tired and groggy and fatigued, she leaned her head into Adaar's hand, sighing almost. She blinked. She began to process the scene. _Where…? What…?_

_Shit._

Her eyes quickly filled with panic, and she shot up, pulling herself upright, brow characteristically furrowed.

“No, wait, you are not supposed to-- this is not-- _you_ are not--”

Bewilderment passed over Adaar's face, and though she became quiet, her hand had fallen back to Cassandra's own, squeezing it tight. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No! That is not what I-- What I mean is that-- _I_ am supposed to-- _Ugh!_ ” Cassandra fell back to the bed, slinging an arm over her eyes. “I do not express myself well.”

“I'm… confused.”

“You are infuriating,” Cassandra said, though it was clear she was hiding a smile.

“Oh, _I'm_ infuriating one?”

“Yes.” She peeked out from behind her arm. “What I mean to say is that… I am glad you are here but… _Maker_ , if I had picked up my blade sooner, this would not be happening.”

“Shall we take this one word at a time?”

Cassandra flung her arm at Adaar with a disgusted noise. “ _I_ have been trying to court _you_!” She began to frantically gesture at herself in an equal measure of frustration. “ _This_ is completely damaging to my efforts!”

“You've… been trying to court me.”

“Yes.”

“With the flowers.”

“Yes.”

“And the hunting.”

“Yes.”

“And the armor.”

“ _Maker, yes_.”

Adaar began to flip through her memories as though running a fine tooth comb through every little moment. She arrived, finally, at the startling (and very obvious) realization: “And I didn't notice.”

Damn Solas – his treacherous doubt. Damn Lavellan – her _passions_. Damn her parents and the Qun and that ridiculous Chantry sister. _Damn them all_.

She hadn't even noticed. She didn't even have it in her to notice what she had tried to do for her.

She should have noticed.

Cassandra watched as the uncertainty touched Adaar's face… the hint of _fear_. She jolted back up. Pulled Adaar close. She brought their lips together until she could no longer see clearly, and she kissed the Vashoth, a desperate attempt to will the expression away.

They rested their foreheads against each other.

“Tell me what to do,” Adaar whispered.

“Adaar, I…” She faltered, and her heart broke for her, for the small and almost unrecognizable sound that broke through in Adaar's words, because though she could kiss away the uncertain expression across her face, she did not know how to do the same for her voice. “Adaar,” she breathed again, as though it were an anchor.

“I'll do it. Whatever it is. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it.”

Harding cleared her throat apologetically, unsure almost if she should have interrupted at all. She reminded herself, though, that the latest bird from Tevinter had just arrived, and the conflict, which had only grown more dire by the day, demanded the Inquisitor's attention.

(“ _You will be_ her _left hand now_ ,” Leliana had said. “ _You must serve her in the most unsavory ways whether she likes it or not._ _Defy her if you must. Your duties are important_.”)

Harding sighed. She could at least feel sorry for it, at least. Or afraid. As she guided Adaar towards the privacy of what had become something of the Inquisition's mobile rookery, she could not help but be reminded that both the Lord Seeker (a dragon-slaying Hero) and the Inquisitor (an imposing specimen of Vashoth) were very formidable and very frightening women.

A power couple to terrify all of Orlais.

Cassandra huffed as she watched Adaar leave. She had not intended for any of it to play out like _this_. But just as the bewilderingly lost expression had remained plastered across Adaar's face, so had it remained glued tight within her own mind.

Perhaps she could attribute the feeling to the stress of her latest injury, but she found herself with the odd desire to _cry_.

The last time she had truly cried had been the moment she had witnessed Anthony's fall. The tears had pulsed through her, thoroughly shaking her to pieces, and afterward, she had felt _ashamed_. It wasn't long before she left to become a Seeker, and she could not have helped but feel that she had completely drained herself of tears.

As she grew older, of course, that sort of melodramatic notion had eventually passed, but by the time Regalyan had died, she had become a soldier, and she had already learned how to steel herself.

She hadn't cried again until the moment she believed Adaar could very well die, too, perishing at the hands of what she herself had once heralded as a miracle. Her eyes had become damp, and the wool of Adaar's uniform jacket had soaked in what few tears she had to give.

Despite herself, she could feel eyes become damp again.

Even when the possibility of her death had loomed over them both, she had never seen Adaar look so _lost_.

That had not been her intent, at all.

Adaar returned, of course, and they did not speak of it directly again. She carried steaming bowls of ox-tail stew that had been, in celebration of the storm's defeat, specially seasoned with Fennec-Tooth's recovered stash of lowland spices. She presented the meal a little more awkwardly than usual, as though she still yet remained unsure regarding what to do with her hands.

Cassandra took the bowl; “ _It is all right_ ,” her eyes said, and she nodded towards the stool.

They ate together in silence.

By nightfall, the shelter had been torn down before it could melt and collapse over its many patients. In lieu of the snow, skins had been propped up to provide some measure of protection against the windchill. Harding had also butchered a nearby Inquisition camp, and in addition to the aid from Stone-Bear Hold, she had managed to erect a few more sturdy replacements. Adaar, of course, had insisted that Cassandra be moved to such a tent, but the Seeker had been quick to refuse, adamant to remain in place until everyone else had been afforded suitable shelter. Thus, the more dire patients were quickly relocated.

Adaar, then, stubbornly refused to leave the stool beside Cassandra.

She fell asleep hunched over, her head, as far as her horns would allow, laying across Cassandra's stomach. Eyes closed, Cassandra tuned her ears to the cadence of the Vashoth's light snores, and she found herself running her hand through silver hair, stroking the space between her horns. Adaar practically purred in her sleep, a deep and rumbling noise.

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of light footsteps.

Lavellan's eyes flitted towards Adaar and towards Cassandra's very sharp gaze. The elf, flustered, made an attempt to hide the flower behind her back. She turned to leave.

“We should speak,” Cassandra said in low and careful tones.

Lavellan sighed in agreement before she placed the flower on the table. She opened her mouth to speak, stopping herself when she glanced towards Adaar. _I_ _was up_ , she tried to say. _I thought I'd stop by._

“Do not worry,” Cassandra chuckled affectionately as she looked down at the sleeping head. “She sleeps like a bronto.”

“Are you feeling well?”

“Yes. Much better. Thank you.” She paused as she considered. She hadn't seen the elf since the party's return, and she supposed now was as good a time as any. “I have been hoping to speak to you. Privately.”

“This is not exactly private.”

“No, of course not. But I believe it is better if we… spoke now rather than later. And I believe this is as private as we will get”

Cassandra regarded the camp which had long since fallen silent with battle-fatigue. The slumbering Adaar growled in her lap, causing the Seeker to realize that her hand, still tangled in her hair, had stilled.

“The flirting,” she said, not quite meeting Lavellan's eyes. “With me. And the flowers. I've noticed.”

Lavellan shifted awkwardly on her feet; she was not used to having to struggle in order to find her words.“Yes, I… At first… In truth, it began as an attempt to ease my mind.”

“You understand I cannot return your affection.” Her hand gripped Adaar's head rather possessively.

“I do understand,” Lavellan said, ignoring the way he head had begun to throb. “As I said, I really was only trying to ease my mind. You were… different. I needed to be around someone different.”

“These past ordeals cannot have been easy for you.”

“No, they haven't.” She looked down at her hands, scrubbing at the creases with her nails. She thought she could see blood. “I do not feel very wise. You would think that with a spirit of wisdom within me that I would feel more wise. Ever since I awoke from the Conclave, however… I have only felt… more tumultuous.”

“I know what you mean,” Cassandra growled, thinking back to her own experiences. “If you like, I can help you meditate. Though it may appear otherwise, doing so has… helped.”

Lavellan looked down at Adaar. “And why are you helping _me_?”

“It would not do if you were to transform into a demon,” Cassandra said dryly. “It also occurs to me that we have a common enemy, and that your heart, despite everything, remains in the right place. Solas, for all our sakes, must be stopped.”

Lavellan nodded as she turned to leave. “Thank you. I will… consider your offer. But for now, I should go. I volunteered for a shift on the perimeter.”

“There is one more thing I would like to say.” Cassandra's words brought Lavellan to a halt: “Cole told me everything. Whatever your intentions may be, do not lay a hand on her again.”

Lavellan nodded again and left the flimsy shelter.

Adaar, still yet asleep, growled once more. Cassandra sighed as she shook her head, resuming her short gentle strokes, her fingers finding that _one perfect spot_ between her horns. Adaar hummed in response, and her chest rumbled. At least asleep, Adaar was calm. At peace.

“I will find a way to make this right,” Cassandra said. “I promise.”

 

Their leader, still alive,  
Still livid with defeat,  
Plotted contra First-Thaw,  
Butchery at her feet.  
Our hero and her kith,  
Found her hidden lair;  
They stole her gift of gore  
To end the Winter-Curse.


	7. To Walk Among the Gods

“By Koslun's donkey dick,” said Kaariss as he looked up into a green-mottled sky. “I have made a _huge_ mistake.”

Clouds swirled above his head, spiralingroughly around the open wound, around the ever-present eye that blinked with demonic tears. The Breach once again painted the sky emerald, though it glinted now with a quality that was not quite right.

As though the Breach opened up to nothing at all.

 _The somniari. They were supposed to have found the somniari_. _For the Avvar. Yes, that's right. And then he had needed to… Oh. That's what happened. Huge mistake indeed._

_Oops._

A flash of light. The snap of thunder, sharp and piercing like sails pulling taut against the wind. The Breach shivered, trembling with magic, pulsing with one final breath before finally collapsing into itself, leaving only a scar in its place.

The final breath of the dying Breach: the hairs on his skin stood tight on end as a desperate rift split the air asunder. It erupted with demons, pulling forth many more from the very ground he stood upon. The terror demon shrieked, and its voice clawed its way into his ears.

Kaariss sighed. “Adaar is going to kill me.”

* * *

 

Cassandra rolled out of the bed, groaning as she was met with a powerful throb in her temples. Groggy, she strapped her armor to her chest, relying now entirely on muscle memory. She stepped out of the hut.

This… is Haven.

Music erupted from the town square below, grating at her ears. Dancing. Laughing. They deserve it, she supposed. The corruption of the Templars had been halted, and with the warriors' helped, they had finally closed the Breach.

Never mind all that for now. She would have to see Solas about this headache.

Naturally, she did her best to avoid the noise of the celebrations, and she sidestepped her way to the apothecary’s quarter of Haven, knowing full well that Solas would avoid the festivities as well. Adan, preferring to abscond from drink altogether, looked up from his herbs.

“How can I help you?” he said.

“I'm looking for Solas.”

“Solas?”

“Yes,” she snapped, the dull throb in her head filling her with the need to assault a tree. “Solas. The apostate. The hairless elf. I need to speak with him.”

“Now there's need to be short,” growled the apothecary. “No one fits _that_ description around here.”

“I… I see. My mistake, then.”

He sighed. “Maybe I can give you something. You do not look well.”

Cassandra grabbed the herbs, doing her best to avoid snapping again at the man. She thanked him tightly before leaving. She relaxed only upon catching sight of the Inquisitor; the Inquisitor stood away from the noise of the party, staring up at the scar the Breach had left.

Cassandra approached; “Inquisitor--”

“--Inquisitor? That's a bit premature, don't you think?” Lavellan rubbed at the back of her neck. “Creators, I'm still getting used to Herald of Andraste.”

“Of course,” she said, shaking her head. “I admit I am still a little disoriented.”

“Yes, closing the Breach was more trying than I anticipated.” She blinked as though trying to rinse the sleep from her eyes. “Seeker. _Cassandra…_ I…”

“You already have my answer,” she said, and her words began to feel stilted in her mouth: “You have done much for us, but be that as it may, it is not possible. You are the Herald of Andraste…”

“And a woman.”

A woman. Herald of Andraste. The words and the thoughts. They floated through her head like the remnants of an old dream. And yet… They burned, too, as though her mind had already begun attempts to purge such foreign objects.

“Perhaps it is not so simple,” she said. “It is just that… I am a warrior. I am blunt and difficult and self-righteous. But my heart lies beneath all that. It yearns for these things I cannot have.”

“You can't force yourself to love me,” Lavellan admitted.“Maybe in another world, then?”

“Maybe.” Cassandra looked

“Just not this one.”

“No.”

Lavellan shook the tension out of her muscles with a deep breath.“Well, then that's settled. I won't get in the way anymore.” She gestured down towards the crowd, towards the dancing and the music and the food. “There's a party, Seeker. Enjoy it. Consider that a missive from your Herald.”

The elf briefly caught sight of a dwarf pulling someone towards the banquet table, his fingers rubbing two coins together. She nudged the Seeker, gesturing again now towards the table.

“ _Really,_ ” she continued. “Don't let me keep you. I need to speak with the Commander, and I do believe there is another who would make far more enjoyable company than I ever could. You might actually find what you have been yearning for.”

Lavelllan regarded the party, and the mark on her hand burned. She hadn't thought it would ever come to this, but at least now… She was helping people. It felt good to help people. It was why she had insisted upon representing the clan at the Conclave in the first place. She smiled as she remembered how she had passionately made her case. How the Keeper had looked upon her with a measure of pride. Herald of Andraste or not, the Creators had brought her here, and she had managed to do some good.

As she watched the villagers revel, holding each other close, she wondered what it might feel like to be loved.

Cassandra, meanwhile, found herself gravitating, despite herself, towards the noise, towards the promise of a person, a memory. She felt a blush creep up her neck when she caught glimpse of a tuft of embrium that had begun to grow beside a barrel and became overwhelmed with the need to clip it for herself.

She made her way towards the banquet table, and even from afar, she could hear him speak:

“Try it,” Varric said. “It's a Free Marches special.”

“There's just… so much _cream_. And is that an eye?”

“A f _ish_ eye. Don't look at me like that and don't get your silks into a twist, either. Trout and egg. That's all it is. It's not like I'm trying to get you to try mosswine.” He sighed as the pan clattered to the table. “Sebastian likes it; so can you.”

“That doesn't count; your friend is _from_ Starkhaven. And you're certainly one to talk. You won't even touch the snails.”

“Look at them! Your dish is slimy. Mine's a pie.”

Cassandra stepped forward, and her breath caught in her throat. She found herself, suddenly, drawing upon faded memories of Regalyan. Recent memories. Regalyan limping out of the Conclave, sporting a near mortal wound. Regalyan in the Hinterlands, erecting a barrier. Regalyan at Therinfal Redoubt, standing by her. Faded memories, but memories all the same.

“ _Regalyan_.”

“Cassandra, my love. Are you feeling any better? I was just about to join you” The mage glanced teasingly towards Varric. “I didn't think that you'd want to suffer these fools.”

“I needed… some fresh air.”

Varric, for his part, winked. “I'll leave you two alone. But try not to sprout feelings, Seeker. You'll ruin your reputation, and I'll have to rewrite my book.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise as she watched a laughing Varric leave. She pinched the embrium between her fingers, doing her best to keep it away from the dwarf's view.

Galyan, however, noticed. “Are those flowers?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said, and though she was reluctant to part with them, she brought herself to thrust the stems into his hands. “When I saw them, I…”

“It's all right. They're wonderful.” He regarded the delicate red petals. “You know, there was a moment when I thought I wouldn't survive the Conclave. Do you know what I thought?”

“No,” she breathed.

“I thought of you. I thought of all those years we let go to waste… We've fought dragons, Cassandra. We've closed a hole in the sky. If we can accomplish all that, surely we can rekindle what we once shared.”

She chuckled humorlessly. “We are different people, Galyan. So much has happened, and I fear I am no longer the woman you fell in love with.”

“What, because you cut your hair? I know I grew out the beard, but I can trim it again.”

“You know that is not what I mean.”

“Don't undersell yourself,” he said, and he stepped closer, his hands falling familiarly to her waist. “Cassandra, you are the bravest person I've ever met. And the most beautiful.”

“You are too kind,” she said. She found it easy, too easy, to fall back in to old habits.

“You must know that it's true. You must see the way I look at you; the way everyone looks at you. Even I can see how the _Herald_ looks at you.”

She doesn't know when it had happened, but they have stepped away, now, behind one of Haven's many huts. Out fo view. Another scandalously stolen moment. She had allowed him to guide her away, but she could not help but feel a strange stirring in her gut. A stirring that trembled strangely with _betrayal_. But how could that be?

“I do not love her,” she said.

“But could you still love me?” He stroked her cheek, his thumb running along the scar. He had done that, too, the first time they had kissed. “Please. Let me at least try.”

He kissed her.

Her hands ran up his arms.

His fingers tickled the back of her neck.

Soft. His lips and his arms and his fingers. Even with the prickle of his beard against her chin, she could not forget how _soft_ Galyan was. How soft he had always been. His lips were not weather-hardened or chapped. His fingers were not calloused in that way only years chafing with a sword's rawhide hilt could provide. They were not rough, but soft and pampered, whispering of a life imprisoned within a gilded cage. His skin was thin and fair and delicate. She found that she did not know what she wanted; she only found that her hands had begun, of their own accord, to wander up into Galyan's hair, grasping for an anchor which did not exist.

But this was the man she loved. This was the man she _had_ loved.

And yet…

He was soft.

“ _Galyan, stop._ ”

He stepped back, ever noble, as though he had been shocked.

She did not know how to tell him. She did not know how to tell him that she couldn't place who it was she had betrayed. She thanked the Maker when she did not have to: A scout blundered through the crowd, pushing and shoving as he stumbled towards the estranged pair.

“Seeker,” the scout said, thoroughly out of breath. “I apologize, but there is an oxman at the gates! He is calling for _you_.”

She drew her sword. Galyan and her Maferath-damned feelings would have to wait.

Kaariss, waved his staff in the air, pretending as though he might explode, at any moment, with magic. The Inquisition’s soldier's had surrounded him, swords drawn and shoulders tense. He only barely kept them at bay:

“Now listen, you hairy eyeballs. I need to speak with Cassandra Pentaghast. Or Adaar. Whoever you can spare, really.”

“Stay back, beast!” exclaimed a soldier.

“Oxman!” yellled another.

Kaariss stepped back, lowering, for a moment, his means of defense. “Oxman? Really? How rude. Clearly, I have the majestic horns of a snowy wyvern. Although, I do suppose ' _Snowy-wynvern-man_ ' doesn't have quite the same ring to it.”

“Wyvern's don't have horns,” muttered yet a third soldier.

“Oh, don't ruin it for me, spirit,” Kaariss snapped.

“Stop babbling.” The Seeker pushed forward, cleaving through the crowd and holding a sword to the Tal-Vashoth herself. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, Seeker Pentaghast. Thank goodness. Tell them to--” He looked down at the blade that at begun to poke a hole through his jacket. “You're pointing a sword at me.”

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Lavellan demanded, stepping out from behind the Right Hand.

“Lady Lavellan. You're here, too, and… you're certainly looking more glowy than usual. Is that what Adaar looked like when she fell out of the hole?”

 _Adaar?_ Cassandra narrowed her eyes. She felt a tickle along her spine, rippling up to the base of her skull. _Adaar smiled as though she were having it out with the giant all over again; “You're delightful, you know that?” I object. There is nothing delightful about me. “I beg to differ.” I think I preferred you in the stocks._

_An even wider smile spread across the Vashoth's lips. “I'm sure you did. Isn't that scandalous?”_

_A blush_.

Cassandra shook her head. No. Is that how it happened? But then all of this… No, this is real. _This_ is real. Galyan is alive, and the Breach is closed, and _this_ is real.

She tightened her fingers around her sword. “Do not speak to us as though you know us. What do you want?”

Kaariss took the proper time, finally, to examine the scene before him. A man he did not recognize appeared beside the Seeker. _The holy balls of Koslun, another spirit?_ The man remained unwaveringly by Cassandra's side, dripping with old familiarity, and Kaariss could see how his hand yearned to reach for the her.

“ _Ebadim vashedan hairy eyeball men_. Yes, I see now. This will be problematic.” He hardened his face as he beseeched the Seeker. “Listen to me, Cassandra, please. You must remember. We need to find Adaar.”

* * *

 

Harding met Cole on the edge of the camp. He was as frantic as they had ever seen him.

“They won't wake up,” he said, eyes wide.

“Slow down. What do you mean?”

“They went into the Fade, but it has been too long. They must wake up--”

Cole continued to ramble beside her as she found her way to the tent. _Shit_. She distinctly remembered Adaar saying something about a somniari before she had left to meet with several of her scouts just beyond the Basin. She hadn't actually _thought_ the Adaar would jump feet first into the job.

“We tried to stop them,” Cole said, “but they wanted to go.”

 _Them_. Most likely he meant the Inquisitor and her Valo-Kas friend.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

Harding looked down at the quartet, and she nudged the sleeping Vashoth with her foot. At times like these, she finally understand why Leliana had never taken on a more hands on approach… The Inquisitor needed babysitting.

Sera jumped in from behind, shoving Harding aside, a sudden force of nature.

A violent heave, the sharp tip of a bucket.

Sera dumped the ice cold water over slumbering heads.

“Well, damnit,” Sera said, peeking over at their slush-covered faces. “I was sure that would work.”

Harding addressed Cole as Sera disappeared with the bucket. “How long?”

“Three days. They do not have much time left. They _need_ to wake up soon.”

“Any ideas?”

Cole looked frantically about. “ _I don't know_. It's… It's loud. Everything is wrong, up is down, down is up, can't tell what's _real_. There is not much we can do, but they are trying. They must succeed.”

Sera reappeared again with a mug of lukewarm water.

“Got an idea?” Harding asked, crossing her arms.

“Nope,” Sera replied as she knelt down. “But Creepy said they're trying right? Answer's easy, innit? We trust them.”

Sera giggled as she stuck the Lord Seeker's fingers into the mug.

 

Now, there is no other  
Better practiced than she  
In traveling through the Dreams  
And through the Waking-Sleep.  
Not a single other  
Knows well the dangers more  
Still on she charged ahead  
To walk among the gods.


End file.
